What Lies Buried
by BandGeek58407
Summary: Sequel up! Post-BoS When Sadusky arrives at the Gate's home and exposes Riley as a felon in hiding from the FBI, Ben has no clue what to think. Is his best friend really a cold-blooded criminal, or is this all part of some larger scheme?
1. Chapter 1

Hello! So…OK. This is Ben's POV. And there will be some adventure later, by the way. Um…I know I'm forgetting something else…pairings are a secret! I'm not giving anything away that's not in the summary. It'll be more fun to read later the less you know, I swear.

**Disclaimer: If the world were mine, Riley and the gang would be too. So I better get on that world domination thing pretty soon…oh! And any other thing you may recognize that's copyrighted: not mine. The quotes at the beginning and end of this chapter are from **_**The Scarlet Letter.**_** Don't sue me. I have no money. **

Chapter One 

_("The heart, making itself guilty of such secrets, must perforce hold them, until the day when all hidden things shall be revealed.")_

XXX

There's a little known fact about me that even Dad doubted for a while: I love to cook. Sure, when I'm in a puzzle-solving mode the microwave's my best friend, but there's nothing better than making something from scratch, at least in my mind. So seeing as Riley's over for dinner (and would probably burn himself boiling water) and Abigail's upstairs, recuperating from a long day in some obscure town examining the authenticity of an important document, dinner duty was gladly relegated to me. Curry's on the menu, one of Abigail's favorites, but Riley's tastes might be a little…uh…_limited_.

"Riley!"

He's in the living room just off the kitchen; I can tell from the poor-quality background music radiating from the TV speakers. Problem is, that music seems to be seriously impeding his hearing.

"Riley!"

"Huh?" OK, good. A response. He's not lost yet.

"What are you doing?" I ask as I move toward the door so I can see him.

"Playing Star Fox on my Super Nintendo!" he declares triumphantly as some happy victory music sounds. "I just beat level one with a new high score!"

Leave it to Riley to obsess over an outdated fifteen-year-old game. I know he bought that new…"Wii" or "You" or "Everyone" system last month, but there he is: playing Star Fox.

"Here," he says, shoving the controller in my hands. "You play level two. It's not hard."

Within three seconds my ship crashes into a space rock and explodes. I simply stare at Riley with an amused look. "Yeah. Really easy. You can have it back," I chuckle before tossing it back at him. "Dinner'll be ready in about ten minutes, OK?"

"Mmm."

Might as well be talking to a wall, a wall that occasionally mutters things like "Oh no, Falco! I'm coming! Don't die!" under its breath. But honestly, I much prefer him playing this thing than when he plays that new system; when he does the tennis game I start to hear him badmouth the computer players ("I'm surprised your stumpy little arms can even hold a racket!"; "Who designed you? The same guy who did Michael Jackson's plastic surgery?").

"Hey Riley? Could you come taste this?" It's worth a shot…maybe he'll hear me. And what do you know? Here he comes now, and rather upset by the looks of it.

"Ugh," he sighs, taking a seat on a nearby stool. "There's something wrong with the game. I was doing fine, and then Falco and all his buddies ganged up together and shot me out of the sky!" With a frustrated sigh, he whips out a pen and scribbles furiously in circles on a Post-It note. "That felt good."

"Y'know…" I pause to test the curry again. "I think I remember you telling Ian and myself on the way to the Charlotte about how you reprogrammed that game so it would be more of a challenge." It's true—and Ian had given me this strange look afterwards, like he couldn't believe I'd recruited someone like Riley.

"So…" he sniffs the air. "What're you making again?"

"Curry. Have you had it before?" I offer him a spoonful.

He smiles briefly like I just asked him the stupidest question in the world. "Ben, Ben, Ben…I work with computers…therefore I _live_ off Asian food."

After a taste (and telling me that I really should have added some sort of Hungarian paprika), he went back to his Post-It note and is still doodling angrily. I'm kind of scared to see the finished product. Knowing Riley, it'll probably be…well, there's no one word that could possibly do it any justice.

"Mm, smells delicious, Ben!"

I turn to find Abigail coming in from the other door, close to where Riley is seated. "And what are you up to, Riley?"

He unceremoniously rips the note off the pad and shows her with enthusiasm halfway reflecting that of a first grader. "I drew a pretty picture!"

Upon seeing Abigail's reaction, it must be a pretty _weird_ picture. "Wow, Riley…this…_thing_ you're hitting the bird with…"

"It's a giant bagel," he states calmly, like it's not peculiar in the least bit. "See, I have this theory that Falco is allergic to wheat products, so this giant bagel should do some harm." For some reason he doesn't catch Abigail's very obvious attempts at trying not to laugh.

"It's great," she finally chokes, hiding a giggle. "But do you mind getting some water out for dinner? The table's already set."

Riley hadn't even been off his stool for a second before the doorbell rings. "I'll get it," Abigail sighs, muttering something about "it's always at dinnertime…"

"Who could that be?" I wonder aloud.

"Can't be your parents," Riley says amongst the clatter of water glasses. "Aren't they in New Delhi or something, searching for more rugs with secret stitching?"

I had just opened my mouth to answer when Abigail calls in, "It's Sadusky and some of his friends!"

"Let them in!" An unexpected visit from Sadusky is always fun, especially if he brought Hendrix. He and Riley always end up getting in some really amusing argument about how the FBI had rejected our claim that the Declaration of Independence would be stolen. Out of context, half of what's said between them makes no sense. The best example was over the summer when Riley, completely fed up, said, "Oh yeah? Well you can take that magic purple pony of yours and shove it up your hard drive for all I care!"

My pleasant memory is quickly forgotten when Abigail returns; she looks worried—more worried than she should be around Sadusky.

"Hello, Ben," I hear Sadusky say a moment later. He's followed by Hendrix (who's carrying a jug of something or other), that other woman they work with whose name I can never remember, and about three armed policemen with the yellow "FBI" emblazoned on their uniforms.

"Hello…" I try to keep my tone as unskeptical as possible; Riley's sensing the mood change too…he sets the glasses down with a quiet clink. "Um…where's the party?"

By the way he looks down before answering, I already know this isn't heading in a good direction. "I wish it were so," he sighs. "I've got a warrant for an arrest—and no Ben," he cuts me off even before I can get a syllable in. "This is not about any of your activities involved in your treasure hunting."

A tense silence follows as Abigail, Riley, and I wonder about what exactly is going on. Sadusky doesn't breach it, either: maybe he's building suspense (which I hope he isn't…that would be a cruel thing to do to a friend) or he's having a difficult time with the whole business of arresting one of us.

"This is a warrant for the arrest of a Mr. Riley Poole, also known as Riley McLaughlin."

What? This…can't…Riley McLaughlin has been on every "most wanted" list for the past six years. _Our_ Riley can't be _that_ Riley. This is insane. My eyes dart to where Riley's standing; he has his hands clenched so hard around one of the glasses I'm surprised he hasn't broken it. Yet his expression isn't angry—it's more troubled than anything.

"Riley McLaughlin?" Abigail says finally. "That guy who hacked into the CIA and NSA databases and sold security secrets to the Middle East?" Skeptically, her eyes too glance at Riley.

"The very same." Normally I'm quite good at reading people, but I cannot tell what Sadusky may be thinking; I have a hunch that he's just as unbelieving as Abigail and I are. But then again, I thought I knew Riley.

"But…" Abigail continues, still doubtful. "Riley McLaughlin was known for his unusually bright red hair." She points at Riley's head of black hair ; usually when she's at a loss for words, a string of muttered swears or bad comebacks issue from her mouth. She must be truly stunned to resort to pointing out the obvious.

"Agent Hendrix," Sadusky says with a nod towards Riley, who had begun to shake.

My hope for everyone to suddenly shout "Surprise! Just kidding!" vanishes as I look at Hendrix carrying that jug. There will be no talks of ponies and hard drives tonight.

"W-w-w-what's in that thing you've got there?" Riley manages to stutter.

"Fast-acting hair dye remover." The young agent pulls out a cloth and pours a bit of the pale blue liquid onto it. For a moment it looks as if Hendrix is suddenly wishing that they have it wrong.

One brief swipe down the center of his head leaves the cloth black, revealing a stripe of extremely violent orange in its place.

And then time stops.

Sadusky's solemn order of "Take him away" sounds murky and unnaturally slow…Abigail's gasp is a thousand miles away. The only thing I can focus on is Riley: we stare at each other, and little by little his blank stare crumbles into distress and apology and a hundred other things I can't even put into words.

"Ben!" I hear him cry. "It's not what you think!" Futilely, he tries to break the hold of the uniformed agents that have pinned his arms behind him. "Just let me explain!" he shouts over his shoulder to Sadusky. "To everyone! No one—"

"Riley, you'll have time to do that before a judge," says the woman agent calmly; it seems Sadusky is unable to say anything more.

"What judge?" Riley continues in a more desperate and angry manner. "You all decided my guilt six years ago!" After a few more fruitless struggles, he turns back to me, the fluorescent lights reflecting off the newly sprung tears in his eyes. "Ben! This isn't what it looks like! You _know_ me! Please _Ben!_" His cries diminish as the agents pull him out the door. Only Sadusky remains.

"I'm sorry we ruined your evening," he says with a significant look at both of us…right when an indecipherable yell from Riley echoes in from the front yard. "I really am."

The scene clouds over, fading…the older agent's footsteps become muffled…

"Ben. _Ben_." It's Abigail, and it seems she's shaking me awake. "Were you dreaming about it again?"

The bright green digits from the clock blaring into my unadjusted pupils tell me it's two forty-seven in the morning…again. These nightmares have plagued me since Riley was taken away. "How'd you know?" I mumble, still half asleep. "Was I muttering again?"

"A bit." I feel her weight readjust; she's probably sitting up or something. "Your best friend…I can only imagine how that has affected you…" I can tell she's frustrated that I'm not saying anything. Maybe I don't want to talk about it. It's not as if the complete lack of any sort of humor around here is enough of a reminder. "Ben," she says again. "It's been a month. When are you going to talk about it? Your parents are returning from India tomorrow evening and are going to show up here expecting to see him. What are you supposed to tell them?"

"Later…can we discuss this later?"

With a resigned sigh, she settles back down and restlessly turns over. There's no way she can be anywhere close to asleep.

So I guess we'll both be awake—no matter how hard I try, I can't get my mind away from my last memory of Riley that day, with his broken expression and tear streaked face.

XXX

_("So, to their unutterable torment, they go about among their fellow-creatures, looking pure as new fallen snow while their hearts are all speckled with iniquity of which they cannot rid themselves.")_

XXX

**So…what do you think? **

**Just as a side note, that whole thing with Star Fox sort of comes from my own life. My grandma has a Super Nintendo at her house for when my cousins and I come over, and it's got Mortal Kombat II (yeah, **_**two**_**) and Star Fox. I royally suck at that game. I did what Ben did: blow up in 3 seconds on level two. **

**Please review. I have severe writers block in dealing with chapter five in my notebook and could really use a boost. Updates will be as fast as my schoolwork will allow. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow. So, thanks for the reviews! The protests for Riley's innocence have already begun. I wonder if Justin Bartha realizes how many fangirls he's got out there…**

**Disclaimer: World domination is not going as planned, so Disney gets to keep owning Riley and everyone…for now. But just you wait!**

Chapter Two 

Fifteen hours later, Abigail has given up trying to talk to me at all. She's forced me out of the kitchen so she can make her special German pot roast for my parents. And here I am, staring forlornly at the closed door to Riley's room.

Sure, he had his own apartment, but he used to stay over here so often that we just gave him a guest room.

Whose door has remained closed.

Why, I'm not really sure. Maybe I'm half-expecting him to groggily stumble out any second, claiming to have caught the African sleeping sickness. One thing is for sure (and Abigail's wasted no time in pointing this out): I really seem to refuse to believe that Riley is actually some traitorous criminal.

It all fits. I know it does. Abigail ranted about how everything suddenly made sense a couple days after the incident…

"…and he'd always take really long showers, to redye his hair most likely," she said hurriedly.

"_Mhm."_

"And you remember some of the things he said…how you wondered why that would work him up so much," she continued, unaware of me not paying attention, or silently wishing she would change the subject…

Those things he had said…about "his records from forever" and "assuming" he could hack into the London police database…his cover could have been blown instantly. I know he's capable of hacking into those databases. I know he dyes his hair. I know he's really Riley McLaughlin.

But I know he's not a cold-blooded, lawless person who would sell out his country like that, either. What he said, or…had _tried_ to say when he was being arrested is one of the main causes of the doubt. There's something everyone's missing, refusing to see, refusing to hear. Trying to be supportive, Abigail did believe me…for a while. But as she put it, "Is there ever another side in dealing with treason?"

"Ben…your parents are here." Even the slight touch of her fingers on my shoulder is enough to completely startle me. "Just…try to act more like yourself. Who knows? Maybe they won't ask about him." As I turn my head in her direction, our eyes meet. Something in mine must show my serious doubt since her hopeful smile falters.

"Sure."

Despite having traveled dreadfully long hours in a tiny plane, Mom and Dad are just as…not necessarily _cheerful_ (because, let's face it, Mom is _rarely_ cheerful), but normal. As we share "welcome home" hugs, I keep silently willing them to not wonder about Riley or ask about him…or anything. Eat the pot roast and _leave._ We'll deal with the "where's Riley" issue later. _Please_ just go off on a secret stitching tangent for the whole night—

"So!" Dad exclaims. _Please_ just let him be asking about dinner. "Where's Riley?"

Why must you be so observant? "Um…I've uh…" Abigail gives me a warning look from behind their backs, but I _think_ I'm going to ignore it. "I've got to go fix something…on the other side of the house." My feet carry me out of the kitchen so fast that if Riley were here, there would have been a sarcastic comment made about it. But then again, if Riley were here, I probably wouldn't need to be making such a sudden exit.

"Was it something he said?" Mom's voice echoes down the hallway.

"No," Abigail sighs. "I'm sure the thing he's fixing is very broken indeed."

The rest of the conversation is lost—at that moment, I reach the doors outside and collapse to sit on the edge of the fountain.

Suddenly, all my frustration about the entire situation just explodes. I hate myself for not knowing him better. I hate Sadusky and the FBI for discovering his true identity and then not letting him explain whatever he wanted to say. And…I almost hate him for not trusting me enough to tell me. Why is it that those I voluntarily choose to work with always end up in jail?

"Ben, what's wrong?" It's Dad. I never even heard the door open. Yet here he is, only about a yard and a half away from where I sit.

"You hear that they finally caught Riley McLaughlin?" I say a little too quickly.

"Don't avoid the question, Ben—" 

"I'm not." With what Riley would probably call my "scary-determined-treasure-hunting" look, I gaze back up at Dad. "I'm not."

Like always after one of those looks, a short silence ensues. "Wh-what are you saying?"

"What I'm _saying_," I say a bit louder, getting up and pacing in a (what Riley again described as) "slightly-obsessed-trying-to-explain-something" manner. "is that Riley McLaughlin was dying his hair, going by a different last name, and helping me in my treasure hunting."

For a moment, I think Dad has disappeared he's so quiet, but then he quite literally plops down beside me. "That's…impossible." He looks for me to laugh and point out Riley hiding in a bush nearby. But I say nothing…and he realizes I'm dead serious. "This happened a while ago…Emily and I heard that he'd been apprehended, but…absolutely nothing of his alias." He sighs, and a long one at that. "I know this must be eating you alive, and I don't blame you for not wanting to talk about it, but…you can't keep running from it. That's very unlike you."

"What are you suggesting I do? Look for clues?" Riley would have been proud of the sarcasm in that comment.

"Well…in a way, yes," he says. " I bet the police didn't give him a chance to clean out his room or computer, now did they?" I feel his hand clap me on the back. "C'mon. Let's eat some pot roast."

XXX

The pot roast was delicious (though I'm still not really sure what made it German) and Mom and Dad shared some interesting things about their "secret stitching" adventure. Apparently the rug they found had some secret about a lost treasure of the Khmer empire in Thailand and Laos. It was one of those exceedingly rare instances when I didn't know a single bit about the history being discussed, and Abigail had a great deal of fun pointing out that she knew more than I did.

Nevertheless, at two-thirty I woke from the same dream about Riley's arrest and could not fall back asleep to save my life. So now I find myself standing in front of Riley's closed door, staring in hopes that it will help me understand what's going on. I realize it's a futile stare: doors are fairly unintelligent objects. No amount of staring is suddenly going to make it do anything more than open, close, or lock. My fingers rest on the knob as indecision hinders them from giving the necessary twist.

"What…are you doing up?" yawns Abigail from behind me.

"Couldn't sleep. Too many questions."

"Can't they wait 'til it's daylight outside?" she yawns again, clutching my shoulder to avoid falling over in her fatigue. I see her point, but I won't be able to sleep unless I find answers.

"Nope." My hand gets a hold of the brass and pushes the creaky door open. The room is exactly how he left it a month ago. The unmade bed, the piles of clothes, the electronics stashed in every corner—this could be the work of no one else, at least, that I know. Coming from the laptop on the desk is a blue light, probably a screen saver. "Let's see what the internet's got on Mr. McLaughlin."

Even though I hear Abigail sigh with frustration, she follows me to the desk and pulls up a chair. "And we _have_ to do this now?"

"Mhm." After some tricky maneuverings trying to find the internet (Riley, of course, has to use some foreign operating system _other_ than Windows), the bright white of the Wikipedia page is staring us in the face.

"'Riley Andrew McLaughlin,'" she reads aloud. "'born July 21, 1981 in Olympia, Washington…went to Georgetown and would have majored in computer science and…Arabic…'" She scans the article for more important information we don't know, but comes up empty. "The rest just talks about the…y'know, crime…and ideas of his whereabouts. No one's bothered to edit it yet."

But there's all these little bits and pieces she skipped over: he was on the tennis team…would have been top of his class had it not been for his abysmal history grades…how all the teachers loved him even though he was the mastermind behind a senior prank involving kudzu, sea monkeys, and a whole lot of window paint. All these bits and pieces that contributed to him I never knew. I never once thought about the consequences of knowing nothing about his past beyond that windowless cubicle—

"What are you looking for, Ben? There's nothing here."

"Wait—his iPod, where's his iPod?" I'm sure he kept all his really important electronic stuff in one of these desk drawers. And at last I come upon the ten trillion gigabyte black iPod video…the one he never let anyone get near with a ten foot pole.

"Um…" she begins, a trace of uncertainty in her voice. "He's going to kill you when he finds out you're going through his music."

"To the contrary, Abigail…I'll bet it's not his music that he wants kept secret. You can put more than music and videos on these things." And just as I suspected, there are a bunch of text files in the Notes menu, and they all seem to be (judging by their titles) something like diary entries. Every topic is covered…the first is "So…I got a new last name," followed by accounts of that job we rescued him from. The later ones we recognize ("I hate my accountant"; "Ben knows too much about history than any normal man should"; "Peter Sadusky: obsessed with ducks?"; "I'm never going to Mount Rushmore AGAIN"). But the last one, the very last one, stops us both cold.

"Dear Ben and Abigail."

We stare at it so long that the MP3 player's backlight cuts off. So many times I had told him to think and plan ahead more…and look what he did. I bet he was internally rolling his eyes every time.

"Ben…" Abigail whispers. "Open it. He obviously meant for us to find it."

I press the center button; immediately we're both blinded by the returning backlight…and Riley's carefully picked words lay bare before us.

If you're reading this, I must have been arrested. You probably hate me for lying to you for all this time…and probably more than I hate myself for it. But before you completely forget about me, there's something I need to explain to you both. Not here though, because anybody and their mother could find this. I don't blame you if you don't want to hear what I have to say, I really don't. And…despite all the lies and deceit that I live behind…you guys are more than I could have asked for at this time in my life. That's the truth. I'm sorry. Love, Riley.

More than he could have asked for…I can't even put words with emotions right now. But I feel one of those moments coming on, the kind where no one can believe I'm serious until they realize it's me talking.

"Abigail…I'm going to bust him out."

"Hm?"

"I'm going to bust Riley out of prison."

Since it's rather dark in the room (and neither of us wanted to risk injury crossing the mess to turn on a light), I can't see her expression. Judging by the silence, though, it must be very unbelieving.

"Y'know, Ben, I've noticed something." Or not…this is unexpected. "Whenever you declare that you're going to do something really stupid and reckless, you always start out with a vague statement and then get specific in the next sentence once everyone's paying attention." Her awaiting eyes are boring into my face.

"Oh really? Name _one time_ other than just now."

Great: now she's really going to get on a roll. I can tell by that miffed little sigh. "Hm…well, there was that time about kidnapping the president, and oh yeah! Riley said you did it with the Declaration too."

Dang. She's right. I can't let her know…hm…I've got to play it off somehow. What would Riley say? "Well, that's just the way I roll." OK, maybe that was a little _too_ Riley. Abigail thinks so too, but _no_, she can't tell me. She's too busy laughing. "It's not that funny."

"Um, yes it is," she giggles. "OK…OK. I'm better."

"Wonderful."

"Ben, I know there's nothing stopping you now that you've made another hasty decision, but how exactly are you going to break him out?"

She's going to love this. "You see, there's this computer program of Riley's that—" Shit. Damn. There goes my whole plan…I can't do anything anymore now that he's not here.

"Yeah," she says curtly, rubbing my shoulder. "Hard to break someone out of prison when you need them out here. C'mon…we'll talk this over in the morning."

XXX

**Sorry this chapter's a little shorter. I promise to deliver more in the future! **

**And if you're wondering about that prank with the kudzu, sea monkeys, and car window paint…well…it's a product of my slightly insane French class. Only in that discussion, the sea monkeys were "expandable." No clue what that means when talking about sea monkeys. Any ideas?**

**Please review. You know you want to. **


	3. Chapter 3

**It's very interesting to see how everyone's reacting to Riley's predicament. And for those of you who are somewhat angry with me, just know that I love Riley to bits. Many, **_**many**_** bits. **

**Disclaimer: Mickey Mouse is guarding my house to prevent me from owning Riley and everyone. And I thought he was so friendly, too…guess not. Geez.**

Chapter 3 

"Ben."

How could I have been so stupid as to start formulating a plan to break Riley out of prison that involves Riley hacking into the prison's security system? I usually think better than that.

"_Ben._"

All the other plans we've done always had a plan B, maybe even a C. But never did we have to go to plan Q where one of us is suddenly unavailable as an asset. And it just _had_ to be Riley, our little magic key into every secure place on Earth.

"_Ben_. Stop glaring at the Cookie Crisp mascot. It didn't do anything."

"Sorry! His nose is a very unusual color! Of course I'm going to stare at it when I'm deep in thought!" Abigail stares at me from across the breakfast table: her incredulity regarding my story gives way to what looks like worry.

"Should I even ask?" she sighs.

"Nothing's stopping you."

"I know the answer." In the silence, she picks up an orange out of the fruit bowl and idly plays with it. "But…well…this whole situation with Riley…_yes_, it does seriously bother me, but…it hasn't affected me like it has you, to the point of regular nightmares. Is there something I'm missing?"

I never have enjoyed flashbacks, and, all of a sudden, I'm bombarded by them.

X

"_If it's any consolation, you've got me convinced."_

"_It's not."_

X

"_Are you all right?" I ask Abigail._

"_Just a little on edge from being shot at, but I'm fine!"_

X 

"Ben, if it were you trying to convince me, you'd have half the evidence and I'd already believe you."

_All the evidence _was _right there. I still went to Sadusky._

X

"'No, Riley! We need you!' 'Yeah, Riley! We'll think of some other way!'" he muttered behind us, looking hopefully for a response. It was a rather delayed response, and although he struggled to hide his disappointment at our nonchalance, there was still some etched on his face.

X

And as if that wasn't enough, a wave of guilt follows. "Abigail…he's my best friend…and all those times I ignored him or didn't believe him at first…you saw him on that platform…"

Her gaze is focused on the waxy skin of the orange still in her hands. "So you feel like you took him for granted. Every time you need something done, ask Riley. He'll do it, and better than you needed. When his part's done, casually push him aside."

Was it really that bad? "You make it sound so mean."

"Ben," she says forcefully, staring straight into my eyes. "That happened every time we began to talk history. The poor guy had to either butt in and ask a million questions or remain clueless because no one, and I admit myself included, was going to fill him in otherwise."

"Abigail—"

"If he had stayed silent and not gotten filled in, would you have taken him along on the adventure part? I know we really didn't have much of a choice the first time, but if he had said he was going to sit out going to Mount Rushmore, you probably wouldn't have protested a bit!"

"Abigail—"

"Now, if it were your dad or myself, you would have had something to say otherwise, and you know it."

As much as I hate to admit it, she's right: I do know it. In between finding the Templar treasure and the fiasco with Mitch and the diary page, we almost never saw each other. I had enough time to fight with Abigail, move all my stuff to Dad's house, and do all that research for the lecture, among other things; I went to Riley as soon as I needed help with some technology issue. He didn't care that I'd been out of touch for so long…he didn't say a word about it. It was just like old times. He sent me his book and I didn't even open it. He looked at me for support as he was dragged away and all I did was stare. Damn.

"He has a lot of respect for you, you know," she murmurs, hardly daring to look up. "You should have heard him telling a story from one of our adventures. You'd have thought that you could walk on water." A lone chuckle escapes her. "I guess you really don't know what's important until a crisis hits."

Exactly. I didn't appreciate what I had until he was gone. Riley just…seemed like such a constant. He went everywhere with us. He was too stubborn and (frankly) curious to leave, even when it got dangerous or too far-fetched for normal people. The guilt that washed over me earlier is threatening to drown me…time to change the subject. "So…is this Cookie Crisp the only cereal we have?"

"Mhm," she says. Her eyes are still on that orange. Come on…it can't be _that_ interesting. "We ran out of your Rice Chex yesterday. This is Riley's."

"Like he really needed all that sugar…" I mutter, pushing the box and its annoying mascot away. Eating his cereal...just feels wrong. Not that Cookie Crisp is gross, but it's _Riley's_. I've done enough already without taking his cereal.

"There's no need saving it for him."

"Hey. I'm still going to get him out of there. It may take longer in the planning stages, but Riley Poole is not staying in prison."

Her eyes look up long enough to meet mine. "McLaughlin."

"No. Poole." After this discussion (or guilt trip, rather), my appetite is gone. I get up from the table, not really to go anywhere, but just to walk around and get away from the Marianas Trench of guilt. "I do not know anyone by the name of McLaughlin."

My foot barely crosses the threshold into the living room when Abigail says, "So which prison is he in, again?" I stop in mid-motion. Yet another obstacle. Not like I _need_ any more, really.

"Why do you keep bursting my bubble like that?"

"Ben…" I halfway turn around and find her at my shoulder, her hand squeezing it lovingly. "I'm not bursting your bubble…I'm pulling you out of the clouds before you get hit by a helicopter."

XXX

It was only nine in the morning, but I still went straight upstairs and laid down. An hour later, I'm still here, hoping that some burst of inspiration will strike. Unfortunately, I've only become more annoyed. Every time I close my eyes or try to clear my mind a vivid picture in my mind's eye appears—

"…_and they're all saying the same thing. _Listen_ to Riley." He peered over the ledge at the huge library, book in hand and obviously frustrated. I had been looking down and not paying that much attention…_

I rarely listened to Riley, except for that bit about Daylight Savings Time. It's not new news after talking with Abigail, so why won't it leave me alone?

Beside me on the table is his iPod that I had taken from his room. Hm…music might distract me, even if it is _his_ music. And there are only three different genres: alternative, comedy, and (surprisingly) a couple pieces under "classical." Not exactly my preference, but that's OK. After listening to some wind band piece, "Balkanya," for a minute or so and deeming it to sound a little too depressing than I need at the moment, I become distracted by the other song titles. One catches my eye, only because of its slight peculiarity.

"'Homesick at Space Camp'?" I murmur, clicking "play."

Yeah. Definitely not my first choice. But something about the words keep me listening.

"…tonight is all about we miss you—and I can't forget your style, your cynicism, somehow it was like you were the first to listen to everything we said…my smile's an open wound without you and my hands are tied to pages inked to bring you back—"

The earphones come out of my ears faster than Riley backed away from that dead guy on the Charlotte. Lyrics to some random song aren't supposed to be that smart or applicable or…

"Hey…" Abigail says, appearing in the door. Upon seeing the music player in my hand, she arches an eyebrow. "Listening to Riley's music?"

"So?" She rolls her eyes. "Talking to someone on the phone?" I guess with a nod toward the cordless in her hand. Instantly her face contorts into a "well…sort of" expression.

"Well…you know how I never answer the phone when the caller ID says 'unknown name and number'?" Yeah, of course…I've missed a couple important phone calls that way, but that's beside the point. "Most of the time they don't leave messages…but this one did." She sighs guiltily. "It was Riley's 'one phone call.'"

Oh. Wonderful…I swear, I'm removing the caller ID so this doesn't happen again. "Here," she says, handing me the phone. "I saved the message."

Hearing his voice doesn't fill me with more guilt like I expected; instead, it's sort of calming, like he's here in the room with us.

"Hey Ben and Abigail…you know who it is. Of course, you two have probably given up that I would make my 'one phone call,' but the FBI had to do some identity verification stuff…so I've actually only been here like three days. Can't tell you where, of course. Sadusky and Hendrix gave me this huge lecture about it. Apparently they think that if you know where I am, you'll try and get me out. I would have laughed, but then I remembered…uh…y'know, everything we've done.

"Today I'm getting moved into a brand new high-security cell…no outside world contact. It's very depressing, but it's almost better than what I've been dealing with the past couple days. They had me bunked up with…Ian. Yes, _Ian._ Didn't recognize me, that's the funny part about it. He tried to make small talk and couldn't understand why I was ignoring him. I couldn't exactly tell him it's because he's tried to kill me like five times, now could I?

"My time's running low…um…check the last note in my iPod. And as it's breakfast time, you're probably out at IHOP or something…well, the next time you go, eat some chocolate chip waffles for me." In the background, a muffled voice sounds like it's giving Riley a hard time; he must have covered the receiver with his hand since his next few words are muffled as well. "Yes, Dave. I go to the International House of Pancakes to eat waffles. It's _not_ that weird. Sorry," he adds at normal volume. "Well…wish I could see you."

The phone drops from my ear before the automated voice tells me the message is over. Even though she's right beside me, I barely hear Abigail say something comforting. The gears are turning; Sadusky and Hendrix have a right to be worried. The cause is not lost after all.

"Ben, you've got that scary look in your eyes that no one likes again." I greet her worry with an excited smile, which only worries her more. "_Ben._" There's a bit of warning in that, but I really don't care right now.

"I know where Riley is."

"No you don't!"

"Yes I do!"

"Where is he, then?"

I can just feel my grin getting larger by the second and Abigail's frustration and concern growing at almost the same rate. "He's with Ian."

"So?"

"It's been a couple years," I say, getting up and into my pacing mode. "Sadusky won't remember that Ian and Riley are at the same prison—"

"Ben, Sadusky remembers _everything_."

"…OK, fine then. We'll ask Hendrix or that other woman, very casually of course, of Ian's whereabouts under the ruse that we want to visit and…um, _apologize_."

This is perfect, no matter Abigail says to "drag me out of the clouds." From the beginning, I knew there would be more obstacles than Riley has little electronic gadgets…if this barrier can come down, so can the rest. I'm sure of it.

"That's halfway plausible," she admits after a moment or so. "But which agent? Hendrix and that woman are _too_ close to Sadusky. We would need someone a step lower. I remember seeing a blond guy with glasses with them briefly. Don't know his name." All of a sudden, her eyes widen. "Oh! I've got an idea!"

"What?"

"You should dye your hair blond and call the FBI with a British accent claiming to be Ian's visiting brother!"

Does Ian even _have_ a brother? If that's the case, then this would work even more perfectly. I doubt the FBI would seriously believe that we'd actually want to apologize to Ian, or even see him for that matter.

"His brother's Michael…he mentioned it to Riley and I when we negotiated with him in Philadelphia that one time."

"Perfect…but wait," I say, pausing in mid-pace. "Why can't _you_ go? Pose as a cousin or someone! Your hair's already blonde anyway."

"I can't do a convincing British accent to save my life. And…" she says with a cheerful sigh. "You had such a good one when you slid down the banister at Buckingham Palace."

Dear God. I really don't want to relive _that_ experience. During the flight back home, Riley wasn't able to stop singing "I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts." That was…well, I'd just rather expunge those memories completely, thank you very much.

"…some as big as your head!" Riley sang quietly, but his gesticulations were just the opposite. His arms opened to full span, and being in the aisle seat, they extended into the walkway—

"_Riley, watch it!" I said, only a little too late._

_It was like a dramatic scene from a TV sitcom: everything seemed to happen in slow motion. His hand collided with the approaching flight attendant and suddenly airline food was everywhere. The aisle, his jeans, the guy sitting across from him—they were all covered in teriyaki chicken. The worst part about it, though, was the guy across the aisle looked like a murderous sumo wrestler. _

"_Hey, uh…Ben? You want to switch seats with me? I don't want to end up a tofu cube in that guy's miso soup." _

_After that flight, I officially decided never to go to a sumo wrestling match; those guys scare me. Especially angry ones covered in teriyaki chicken._

"Fine, fine…I'll do it." I eye the phone next to Abigail warily. "Can't use that phone…they'll know it's us…unless…"

"Ben, just go into town and call on a pay phone."

XXX

As Abigail sat reading the notes I took, I realize how lucky I was that the agent I talked to was a brand new addition to Sadusky's squad. The guy was an open book: he told me anything and everything I needed.

"OK…so where is this top-secret high-security prison Agent Lynch told you about?" She sets the scrap of paper on the breakfast table and absently grabs a few pieces of Cookie Crisp from the box we forgot to put back in the pantry.

"Well, it's not too terribly far from here, he said…and good thing, too. The appointment he set up is early tomorrow morning." Problem is, I have no earthly idea where the "Peaks of Otter" are. Lynch said they were about five hours from here. I relay this all to Abigail.

"I know where it is," she says simply. "I went hiking up there in college. But there was never any prison, Ben. Lynch probably gave us some false information." Her eyes scan the notes again, pausing halfway down. "Ah…it's underground. That's clever."

How exactly we're going to get Riley out is still bothering me, even though this mini-mission is only to find out where his cell is. If he were here, it would be a simple matter. But of course, nothing I'm involved with can ever be simple. It's an unwritten law of the universe, only unwritten because Isaac Newton spilled coffee on that section of his notes.

"Here." Out of nowhere she tosses me a large plastic bottle of blond hair dye. "I think it's best to just go ahead and get down there as soon as we can."

"We?"

"What? Were you thinking that I'm not coming? Because I am." The expression that crosses her face reminds me of when she insisted that she get involved with the Templar treasure the night of the Gala…all those years ago. Back when Riley was still with us.

"Fine, fine…" Arguing would be a pointless waste of time and energy by now. "You have to come up with a disguise, though. How about…"

"I'll go as your German secretary who can barely speak English." I somehow keep forgetting that she's from Germany. Maybe it's because of her non-German-sounding accent. "Go! Go on, dye your hair! I'll make hotel reservations! Work on your accent, and feel free to slide down the banisters if need be!" Within seconds I'm being pushed out the kitchen.

Abigail wasn't nearly this nervous when we had to do other operations of…"questionable legality," so her sudden anxiety really throws me off guard. Breaking into the Queen of England's study doesn't equate stealing the Declaration, I do admit; however, there is _some_ thought going into this. But honestly, impersonating somebody is not a huge deal. She's blowing it out of proportion.

Or—and I hope so much that this isn't the case—she knows _something_ will go wrong, or our plan will go out the window, or Ian will call us out before we can even talk to him. And now I'm catching her jitters.

Thanks a lot, Abigail. Really appreciate it.

XXX

**So the song, "Homesick at Space Camp"…it's by Fall Out Boy (I really don't want to be sued ) and I heard it for the first time right after I got the idea for this story. I cracked up for a straight three minutes because of how well it applied here (and probably since it was kind of late…)**

**And the whole "Ben's guilt trip" thing…I was amazed at how much Ben really did ignore Riley in the first movie when I started paying attention. When I saw the second movie and got to the part when Ben shows up at Riley's house, I realized they hadn't seen each other. It's not like he could have enough time to move all his stuff to Patrick's house **_**and**_** have Patrick get sick of it in a short time span. Plus, Riley hadn't even heard that Ben and Abigail were getting rocky. Ben needed that little guilt trip.**

**So yeah. Please review. **


	4. Chapter 4

Muchas gracias (even though I definitely don't take Spanish) for the reviews and comments! Even though I have a pretty good idea which direction I want this fic to go, there are still some things I need to work out, and your suggestions are very helpful.

**Don't get me wrong: it may seem that I hate Ben. I don't, but I do think he's got some issues to work through. Hopefully that will be addressed in NT3, which they HAVE to make. They just do. And I also forgot to mention the composer of one of the songs on Riley's iPod: "Balkanya" was written by Jan Van der Roost. If you can find a recording you should listen to it. It's really cool. **

**Disclaimer: Guess what? Riley, Ben, Abigail, Sadusky, Ian, Hendrix, Patrick, Emily, Mitch, and even that cute little kid in Philadelphia: I don't own them! Someone please tell Disney so they can call off Mickey—he's creeping me out.**

Chapter 4 

I can see why the Peaks of Otter would have been a good place for hiking like Abigail said: the paths are lined by multitudes of verdant trees and other ferns and such. However, the lack of actual otters confounded me for a brief time. You'd _think_ with a name like "Peaks of Otter" that there would be some otters running around. Apparently not.

Abigail, halfway disguised in an old pair of reading glasses and her hair in a bun, and I, now blond-haired and sporting those sunglasses Riley always made fun of, are standing at precisely the spot Agent Lynch described to us and yet nothing has happened. Abigail's speculations about false information are becoming more and more plausible by the second. And after about the fourth squirrel that stared at us like we're complete idiots, I am very close to going back to the car.

"Ben, we're not leaving Riley."

"Lynch fooled us."

"Let's just wait a few more—ah!"

I'm instantly reminded of something I saw in the sixth Star Wars movie (that Riley made me watch): a little camera is suddenly jutting out of the rock face behind us and starring us down coldly. And as soon as it appeared it disappears; in its place is a steel plated door.

"Doesn't that just scream 'sci-fi' to you?" I wonder aloud.

"Let's go…we'll worry about the technology later." For the second time in twenty-four hours, she pushes me ahead. There was no need to shove…she _could_ have told me to move, but no. Let's shove Ben. It'll be fun!

Once inside the creaky door, we follow the hallway to what looks like a reception desk, behind which a bored young man sits.

"Hello there, sir! What can I do for y'all today?"

"Hello," I say slowly, making sure to lay the British accent on as thick as I can. "My friend and I are here to see my brother, Ian Howe. I do believe an appointment was made yesterday?"

The young man (Carl, if his name tag's correct) takes a minute to look us up on the computer. "Mhm…got you right here, Michael…and with no video or sound monitoring. But…" Carl eyes Abigail suspiciously. "There's nothing here about your friend."

Dammit. When I talked to Lynch, I hadn't anticipated Abigail coming along. "Oh, this is Froline Schaufenburg, my German secretary. She doesn't speak much English," I add in an undertone.

"Then why is she your secretary?"

"Oh, well…" C'mon, think, Ben, think! "My business does a lot of business with German-speaking areas…you know, like Germany…uh, Belgium and so forth." And (thank God) Carl believes every word. "See, when she found out I was coming to visit my dear brother, she really wanted to come along. Ian's one of her good friends. I just couldn't tell her _nein_!"

An awkward silence follows; Carl's brow is contorted into a really pensive expression and neither Abigail nor myself can figure out why. I don't think anything I said requires that much deep thought.

"So…" he finally says. "Did you have to tell her 'eight' or something?"

If I possessed no control over my composure, I would have started to laugh as soon as Carl finished speaking. Thankfully, that's not the case, thought I have to elbow Abigail to remind her that she shouldn't technically be understanding what we're saying anyways.

"Yes, yes I did," I stammer slightly. "Please…I think Froline's getting a wee bit anxious to see good old Ian." Abigail _is_ looking anxious—from trying to hold in her laughter. And it's enough to convince Carl.

"Go on then, Mr. Howe," he smiles. "And have a nice visit! It's just down there on your right."

"Just down there on our right" put us directly in front of a scary four-hundred-pound guard who looked ready to pound Abigail into sheet metal. "Who's this?"

"She's cleared up with Carl." I hope this is enough to placate this guy; no amount of historical knowledge or quick maneuverings would help much in this small corridor.

"Fine. In here," he says, opening the door and shooing us in.

The room we find ourselves in is just like those from the movies: there's a row of sectioned-off booths with a pane of glass separating the visitors from the inmates. A tiny hole—large enough for sound to get through, but nothing else—is drilled into each section's portion of glass. All the seats are empty.

Except one.

"You're not Michael," Ian mutters curtly in his British drawl as Abigail and I sit across from him.

"Correct." I remove the sunglasses (Abigail, too, takes off her few disguises), relieved to not have to fake an accent.

"Gates." There's contempt overflowing from that one syllable. "You don't look good as a blond."

"I do what I have to. You remember Dr. Chase?" I say casually, motioning over to Abigail.

"Of course. However…" Ian takes a long while to gaze around at both of us. Despite having been in prison since we saw him last, I notice that he doesn't seem affected by his "hard time" at all. Just the same old Ian, only in an orange jumpsuit. "Where's Riley? This little reunion's not complete without him."

Suddenly, I'm questioning the effectiveness of this plan. Ian clearly still hates our guts, so why would he feel the need to divulge information that could help us? "Well, actually…you shared a cell with him for three days this past week."

"What?" he scoffs. "That was Riley McLaughlin, not Poole!"

"Ian," Abigail sighs. "They're one in the same."

He mulls it over, and slowly a very creepy sort of smile breaks across his face. "Ha…another hire of Ben's gone to jail. Hilarious."

"Not really," I mutter.

"Oh, yes it is! Just a riot!"

"This isn't helping, Ian."

His grin abruptly fades as he leans forward in his seat. "So you need my help? What if I don't want to? Why _would_ I after you put me here?"

Great. This is just what I was afraid of. And unfortunately, no coherent answer is coming to mind.

"We only want to know where Riley's cell is," Abigail interjects. "Think of it as good karma. And I do believe you _need _some." Ouch. Nice one.

"Wait…you're planning on breaking him out, aren't you?" His anger and frustration seem to boil over in his speech.

"Yes," I admit. "That is the eventual idea. It's a long story."

He glares at us until I say that last part; then confusion immediately clouds his expression. For at least a straight five minutes he sits there, silent, and seems to be wrestling with himself over something or other. Every so often he glances up at both of us like he's trying to understand our motives.

"Ben…" he sighs. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this beneficial information, but…the hard part about breaking into this place is getting inside. You're already here—just go on and try now."

There's truth in his words. Without Riley's help, getting back in here would really be an impossible feat. I can see Abigail thinking it over out of the corner of my eye and it looks like she's coming to the same conclusion. "Fine. Where's his cell?"

"If you turn right down the main hall and keep going, you'll get to the cafeteria. To the left of the kitchen is another hallway where all the high-security prisoners are kept. Riley's in there somewhere."

Either luck is on my side or Ian's being cruel. I really do hope it's the former. As we get up to leave, Abigail and I exchange glances, and we're thinking the exact same thing.

"Oh, and also," Ian adds. "Don't act like you're doing anything wrong. There are cameras everywhere."

When I reach the door, I realize Abigail's not behind me—she's halfway across the room, giving Ian this curious stare. "Why are you helping us?"

"Eh," he shrugs. "I have nothing to lose. And maybe it's not as crazy an investment as everyone says." It's ironic how he brings up one of our last civil moments when he's stuck here in prison. "Have fun."

XXX

"Ben," Abigail frantically whispers after arriving in the high-security area. "This is madness! We can't find him in this place: it's huge!"

No wonder Ian told us to have fun, the sadistic jerk. There's got to be at least one hundred cells in this part of the hallway alone, and I can see where the path splinters off multiple times. If there wasn't so much at stake, I would march right back to Ian and smack the Britain right out of him. And mind you, that's pretty hard. "Do you think these walls are sound-proof?"

"I don't know why they would be."

"Well, what could we yell to let Riley know we're here? Y'know, so he could bang on his door to tell us where he is." It's less obvious than flat-out screaming his name and no one else would get it. But nothing good is coming to mind.

"Hm…" she sighs. "There's always 'I've Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts'—"

"Nope."

"But it would work so well!"

"Not going there." The guards here wouldn't let us leave this place—we'd be headed straight for the padded room most likely.

"I doubt you want to shout 'magic purple ponies' either…so…" Absently, she starts to snap her fingers.

The idea strikes me quite suddenly. "I found two thousand ways how not to make a light bulb!" I shout, my voice echoing off the walls. "It _was_ a million dollar pipe!"

"Ben?" I hear her, but I don't take in what she's saying. My ears are tuned to only hear banging on a door or a muffled version of Riley's voice.

"_You_ call the finder's fee next time!" Down the hall my legs carry me, though I'm quite unaware of it. I must look rather insane to Abigail. "It's a little golden man! I hope you didn't break a shoelace this morning! My dad's car _does_ smell weird!" Silence—it's the worst sound in the world. Each of the hundreds of doors seems to be mocking me, each one ahead or behind me or down the hall to my right. _This is your fault,_ they hiss. _If you had been a better friend, then you could have saved him from this fate…_

"We must…join hands and pass over the rock…" I yell feebly. "Ka-kaw! Ka-kaw…" Even though I know he can't see me, I still flap my arms for the full effect, yet after a couple they hang limp by my side. "Riley…" I mutter.

"Ben, let's go…this isn't—"

_Whack whack whack!_

"Did you hear that?" I smile; there's never been a more beautiful sound. "It's coming from this hallway here!"

_Whack whack whack!_

"Do you think it's him?" she breathes as she catches up to me.

"Who else could it be?"

_Whack whack whack!_

And we arrive—at cell number 2261A, with a familiar pair of blue eyes peering through the tiny square window. Disbelief floods them immediately. "Ben?" His voice is slightly muted, seeing as it has to pass through a wall.

"Stand back." I should have been a Boy Scout.; I brought this plastic device that's supposed to break car windows if you're in an accident with me just for the heck of it. Let's see if it really works.

"Ben," Abigail starts. "I'm not sure that's the best—"

_Crunch!_ The floor around us is soon covered in tiny glass shards.

"…idea…" I bet she's rolling her eyes at me right now.

"Ben! Holy Lord, what the _hell_ are you doing here?" It's still the same old Riley, only…not. The nearly blinding red hair is hard to adjust to, and he just doesn't look healthy at all. Even though he won't look me in the face I can see dark circles underneath his eyes, emphasizing his paler skin. An air of dejection hangs around him like a visible fog.

"I'm busting you out."

After a sarcastic chuckle, he shakes his head, saying, "You say it like it's so _simple_. This is anything _but_ simple. I did the crime, now I'm doing the time." More sarcasm, bitter sarcasm, coats his words. At first I'm reminded of when he tried to convince me stealing the Declaration was impossible, but there's one key missing element: the coldness in the way he said it…the resigned glare…something's happened to Riley in the last month, and it's not good.

"I refuse to believe that." He looks up briefly (though not at me) with a piercing gaze of cold curiosity. "You're going to get your chance to explain. Now…" I run my hand over the steel door. "Is there any way to open these doors without—"

"Without hacking into the security system?" he guesses. "Nope. Sorry. And an alarm's about to go off any second from this little window you broke."

Oh wonderful. Superb…just what we need: another obstacle.

"You've pretty much shot yourself in the foot," he adds with a grimace.

"Well, they're _my_ feet and I can shoot them anytime I darn well please." Suddenly, he stops avoiding eye contact—the impact of finally looking Riley…_McLaughlin_…in the face is derailing. The resemblance to my happy, childish friend who flapped his arms like a bird and giggled over Connor the curator's peculiarity and hugged the Egyptian statue and believed in shoelace omens and called Benjamin Franklin's invention "x-ray specs" and sang about coconuts is almost lost. Then the corner of his mouth twitches, but barely. It's still enough to give me hope.

"Ben, he's right. We really should be going," Abigail says behind me.

"Riley," I sigh. "We're coming back—"

_DWEEOOOO!!!_

"—for you, OK? I promise. Now what's the fastest way out of here?" Besides the raucous alarms threatening to burst my eardrums, clichéd lights begin to flash as well, flooding the hallway with temporary bursts of infrared.

"Down the hall and to the left is an emergency exit. Hurry!" Didn't need to tell either of us twice; the hall he pointed to is (of course) unusually long. And much to our dismay, the floor begins to shudder under the weight of the approaching guards.

"Abigail," I shout over the noise. "Give me the lanyard for your glasses!" As she fumbles to remove them from around her neck while running, the rumblings of the armed guards grows. There's probably a literal army. And here I am, armed with a string of beads. How…"Home Alone"-esque.

No sooner have I secured the string in my hand do the guards turn the corner and put on an extra boost of speed. I'm pretty sure Abigail's put two and two together; she's giving me another incredulous look. Too bad…this is the only plan we've got.

With a sharp snap and a fling, the hall is filled with the dull patter of plastic beads bouncing on tile…and soon followed by miniature earthquakes of tripping bodies and the accompanying shouts that are barely decipherable over the "dweeooo" of the alarm.

Abigail and I scramble past the left corner and fling open the door labeled "Emergency Exit: Alarm Will Sound." (Whoops. Too late.) But before the door closes out all the chaos behind us, I swear I hear a laughing voice above all the others—

"THAT WAS _CLASSIC!_" At least I just made _somebody's_ day.

"Ben? Where does this come out?" Abigail gasps ahead of me on the stairs; our pace never slows as our feet thunder on the simple metal steps.

"Just keep going!" The most counterproductive thing that could happen right now is to be caught and thrown into a cell next door to Riley's. And (thankfully) at last we reach the exit, literally almost falling all over each other to get out. Fortunately, we're not far from where we began.

"We need to get down to the car," Abigail says. No sooner had she finished does the dusty dirt path begin to be peppered by raindrops.

The rain only continues to worsen as we make our way down the mountain, turning the trail into a chunky, rock-filled mud soup. Our feet, sloshing around in the mix, turn a reddish brown. The only positive part about this, I realize, is that nobody would be following us. To lessen that chance, I put as much distance as I can between us and the mountains as soon as we get in the car.

"Abigail…" She looks asleep—unexpected levels of stress, I suppose. Again. And it's my fault. Again. No, I just couldn't wait long enough to make a plan.

"Hm?"

"We need some help."

XXX

Poor Riley. (cries) He has to stay locked up longer.

**Sorry for the relatively long update period. I was super busy this past weekend with the All-District Band event and then got swamped with homework. So blame my history teacher. Haha.**

**Please review! **


	5. Chapter 5

**This was the chapter that kicked my butt for the longest time. I bet if I actually smelled the paper it's written on, it would smell of writer's block. No joke. I hope it's not too terribly awful. **

**Disclaimer: If I were Jerry Bruckheimer, Jon Turteltaub, or Disney, this story would not be in the form of a fanfiction. So guess what? I'm not them. Surprise, surprise. **

Chapter 5 

The building is unassuming enough: gray, plain, tucked away. But it's exactly what we need, believe it or not. Abigail's choosing the latter.

"There's no way you found Riley _here_," she sighs as we cross the parking lot.

"I did so. This office was recommended to me, actually." Still, she seems a bit incredulous. That's understandable; our misadventure at the prison continues to weigh heavily on her mind, even two weeks later.

As soon as we enter, everything sounds more muted, sort of like going into a room layered with sound-absorbing insulation. The tapping of fingers on keyboards dominates so much that our own breathing seems overly magnified.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" Looks like we missed the receptionist, halfway hidden behind some bizarre potted plant. It's not any sort of normal plant; Riley would probably call the leafy thing a mutant freak. It certainly is distracting.

"Yes, hi. I'm Paul Brown and I called a few days ago to set up an appointment with your manager—"

"Right, right…" She waves lazily, indicating we can go on through. I bet this is the most action she's gotten here all week.

The sea of windowless cubicles we walk by is rather depressing; no wonder Riley wanted out so badly. And that freak of a plant is probably meant to brighten up the mood. I have a hunch it's not working too well.

"I see you've picked up an old pseudonym," Abigail mutters with amusement.

"I don't want to attract attention." Half the people here probably remember Riley and how I hired him. To announce my presence is to resign myself to being bombarded by desperate computer programmers. Eventually we come to the lone office, labeled "George Hebrews, Manager."

"Ah! Come in, come in!" booms a jovial voice from within. Not even half a second later, the door flies open and we're pulled inside.

"Welcome, Mr. Brown!" George exclaims. "Sit, sit, both of you. What can I do for you?" He settles back into his leather chair, though with some difficulty—the man is huge. But even as he tries to get comfortable, he still has a smile plastered across his face, hidden as it may be by his large handlebar mustache. The ceiling lights reflect dully off his bald head. (Slightly ironic, considering the mustache, but that's not my problem.)

"Well, Mr. Hebrews," I say. "My friend and I are in dire need of someone with extensive computer skills, and we'd like to hire one of your programmers. We'll pay you for compensation and everything," I add.

"There's no need, my boy!" he laughs off. "It's fine with me. And I'll tell you who'll do the best job: go on down to cubicle ninety-one. Just come tell me what you're doing before you leave, all right?"

"Thank you very much."

As Abigail and I exit the office, we can't help but exchange disbelieving looks. How likely was it that we could barge on into this man's office and basically snatch his best employee and have him be happy about it? Based on our luck, we really should have been launched from the office and straight into that weird plant.

"It seems luck is on our side today," I murmur, noting the cubicle numbers.

"Yes. It's rather nice, isn't it? I guess we should try to enjoy it while it lasts." Abigail: always the downer. Lately she really has been a bubble-burster, and frankly, I don't care if I run into any metaphorical helicopters. I've done just fine with metaphorical helicopters in the past: all they are now are smoldering ruins. "Oh wait—here's number ninety-one."

Emanating from the gray walls is a slurping sound, like when you can't get that last drop of a drink from a straw. Abigail raises an eyebrow skeptically. Way to be judgmental. If I had been so when I first met Riley in this very building, the guy would still be here and I'd still have no idea where the Charlotte is.

_I walked up to cubicle one hundred and two with hesitation. "Excuse me? Are you Riley Poole—"_

_Both of us stopped dead—me, at seeing what he was doing, and him, at being caught in the act. A pink flush tinged his cheeks. "Sorry," he sputtered. "I was just, uh…"_

"_No, no, it's fine. I hold full-scale wars with plastic doctor's-office dinosaur figurines all the time during my lunch break." His flush faded a little as he cracked a smile. "Don't worry about it."_

"Um, excuse me?" I say, poking my head in. The girl inside nearly jumps out of her seat and drops her plastic Frappuchino cup. "Hi…I didn't mean to startle you. Can we come in?" That might be pushing it, considering the cubicle's tiny size, but she motions for us to do so anyways.

"So…" she sighs, shifting a but in her rolly chair. "What's up?" Her dark eyes, which are small and cheerfully squinty, survey us curiously. As Abigail and I look at each other to find the right words, her curiosity breaks an interested smile across her round, Mediterranean face.

"I don't think it's wise to discuss this _here_," Abigail hisses; the girl's smile instantly changes into a confused frown.

"Right…" I sigh. "Well, we have a proposition for you, but would you mind if we elaborated over lunch? Our treat." A lesson from Riley: offer anybody who works with computers free food and they will never decline. I got him to go to many historical lectures that very way, and the offer seems to be working on the girl.

"All right," she shrugs, hopping up (and almost hitting Abigail in the process). "The name's Caroline, Caroline Essex."

"Paul Brown," I say as I shake her hand. For some reason, her eyebrows shoot up in something like surprise before turning to Abigail.

"Ah…Barbara," she says to Caroline quickly.

"Nice to meet you…Barbara." Her tone gives me the biggest feeling of déja-vu; Abigail smiles despite herself. Hopefully Caroline won't ask us about Bigfoot and centuries old pipes. "So…sorry for my, uh…"—she motions to her dark blue sweats and old gray hooded sweatshirt—"yeah. I obviously don't work in people relations."

"So what do you do?" Abigail asks tentatively as Caroline pulls on a pair of sunshine-yellow Converses.

"Well, _Barbara_," she says, putting extra (and slightly sarcastic) emphasis on her name. "I write programs. The end. No contact with clients or anything. That's Mr. Hebrews' job." Ruffling her messy bun of dark brown hair, she takes one last gaze around the small space and clicks off the computer. "So. Where to?"

XXX

We drove to a secluded restaurant not too far from the office, and the entire way over I couldn't help but wonder if involving another innocent person in our misadventures is a good idea. They are always dangerous and bordering on illegal—at best. Do I really have the right to thrust that upon someone I don't even know?

"Table for three?" the host asks, interrupting my train of thought.

"Yes, and if you don't mind, we'd like a tucked-away table. And we'll get the waiter when we're ready." He raises an eyebrow at my request but obliges anyway.

"This way."

Caroline takes the seat across from Abigail and I in the booth, staring us down intently like she's trying to figure something out.

"Well, before we go any further," I say with a quick glance at the departing host. "I have to be honest. I'm not Paul Brown."

"I knew that." Whoa—smart girl. "And you're not Barbara." Slowly, a smile breaks across her face. "You're Ben Gates and Abigail Chase."

Well, that saves us an explanation if she already knows who we are. Unfortunately, if she knows us, she at least knows who Riley is, and we don't have a cover-up for him.

"I hit the nail on the head, didn't I?"

"Yes," Abigail admits.

"But where's, uh…" I really hope she's asking about something mundane, like the waiter. "the other guy. I don't remember there being Two Musketeers. I mean, come on, that's not the name of the candy bar!"

"Don't worry about him." I'm betting on my determined gaze getting her to drop the subject. "He's, uh…got a new job with bad hours and he can't help us this time around." That's not a total lie—after all, prisoners have the worst hours out of anybody.

"What job?" she probes.

"Mattress tester," Abigail blurts out. I'm sorry, but that's even more ridiculous than ponies in Hendrix's hard drive. "They got a new shipment of luxury Swiss mattresses yesterday. It's a pretty big deal."

Amazingly, Caroline nods in understanding, not at all skeptical. Abigail seems to have a talent for making up stories on the spot—first the earring in the Oval Office, now the mattress-testing business. At least she doesn't have to make out with anyone this time.

"So…I know you two didn't bring me here to discuss mattresses." Despite being so cheerful, her eyes suddenly become immensely piercing.

"Right, right," I sigh. "I'm going to get straight to the point." A brief sweep around the room tells me no one's in earshot. "We need to break someone out of prison."

"Prison?" she repeats. "Who?

"Not important," I say hurriedly. "We've already tried once, but the only way to open the cell doors is hacking into the security system—"

"Which you can't do," she supplies.

"Obviously."

"And you think _I_ can."

"I sure hope so."

"You're in luck," she says with a grin. "I happen to be quite adept at hacking. I'll be honest too: I'm no prodigy, but I can get the job done." She pauses as her grin grows. "Well, I'm in Mr. Gates. Sounds like more fun than sitting in that windowless cubicle."

"I've heard _that_ before," I chuckle. This went way smoother than I anticipated—most people wouldn't happily agree to do something this…um, illegal. As much as I would like to brush this nagging thought aside, I can't. Either she wants excitement, has nothing to lose, or also happens to be a criminal in disguise. And based on my luck, that last one isn't so out of the question.

"Now that I've agreed to work with you, can I go find the waiter? I'm starved." Right on cue, a loud grumble sounds from her stomach.

Abigail barely nods once before Caroline jumps up. "She seems nice," she says after the bright yellow shoes round the corner.

"Yeah, doesn't seem like a felon to me."

"Bet you said the same thing about Riley," she mutters. Come on, Abigail…that was supposed to be a joke. Gosh. But the point she made still hits home.

"Hello," the waiter says with a slight air of impatience. "What can I get for you all?"

As we order, I keep trying to find the right words for what I want to ask her next. It's necessary, but approached the wrong way and we might as well start looking for another replacement.

"You don't mind bunking up at our house during this whole operation, do you?" Might as well be point-blank about it. The waiter gives us a funny look as he walks away, but it's not suspicious enough to make Abigail or myself worried.

"No," Caroline shrugs. "That makes sense, considering the hugeness of this whole thing."

"Good, good…" I say. "I hope this operation'll go a lot smoother the second time around."

"What? It's not like you escaped from the guards by tripping them up with marbles or something!" She laughs, but stops once she realizes we're not joining her. "You _did_?"

"They were beads," Abigail says as if that mattered.

"It was either that or get trampled," I add.

Her reaction to our clichéd attempt to escape at least lets us know she's capable of more original ideas (always a plus, and in this case, always a necessity).

"Well…" Caroline leans forward, putting her forearms flat on the edge of the table. "Trampling won't be an option this time. We've got some work to do."

XXX

**Sorry if you found that boring. This was more of a transition chapter, I guess. The next one will be more interesting, I promise. **

Please review/constructively criticize/etc. Your input is always greatly appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Yay for the more author-friendly chapter six! I got all of this typed up instead of studying for my US history test…since, come on, National Treasure technically is US history. But that still didn't help me with Benjamin Harrison and his silly tariffs and what not. Ben should rant about it in NT3. Then I'll never forget it. **

**Just so you know, Caroline is NOT a Mary Sue.**

**Disclaimer: If I were Jerry Bruckheimer, I'd cut down all the trees in my yard 'cause I don't want them struck by lightning like the one in his little icon thing. And seeing as I have oodles of trees around my house, I must not be him. Or Disney. **

Chapter Six 

It's been hours, and I have never felt so uselessly bored. Caroline's been on her canary-yellow laptop, tapping away at some program and occasionally letting out very frustrated sighs. After about an hour of asking if we could do something and receiving an annoyed "not yet" in return, Abigail got the hint and is now taking a nap. I, on the other hand, am still hunkering around the kitchen. And let me just say that those games on the back of the Cookie Crisp box get old after about the uh…_first_ time around.

"Caroline? Are you absolutely sure I can't help with anything?"

"Ben." Immediately she turns away from the computer and points at me with her coffee bean enhanced granola bar. "That is the twenty-third time you've asked me in the past two hours. Why don't you just…" She throws her granola-bar-free hand up in the air as her eyes roll. "Just…go ghostride your Volvo or something." And back to typing she goes. There's only one problem.

I have no idea what she just told me to do. So now I'm standing here in the doorway looking quite stupid. She knows we don't own a Volvo…so does that make her comment some sort of slang idiomatic expression? Geez, this is harder than the riddle on the pipe. At least then I knew what they were talking about.

"You have no idea what I just said, do you?" Her eyes never leave the screen, but an amused smile crosses her face.

"Not a clue."

She laughs, then saying, "Don't worry about it. I only wanted to see what your reaction would be." A slightly awkward pause ensues for a moment. "So when do you want to go through with this whole operation?"

"Sooner rather than later." I really don't have anything else to do, so I waltz over to the sofa and plop down beside her. Not feeling like I have an active part in breaking Riley out is more bothersome than having an active part in my ineffective plan. My guilt meter will go haywire otherwise. "What're you doing?"

"Trying to hack into the prison's system. Once I do that, I can download all the necessary information, like floor plans and such, and it'll be easier to gain reentry on the day of the real thing."

What looks like hacking to her looks like a whole lot of gibberish on a screen to me. But I'm not about to question her. I did that to Riley once—only once—and I was soon bombarded by an army of technical terms and confusing procedures.

"We need a code name for this operation," she says after a few minutes.

"Like what?"

"Hm…" Her constant finger movement on the keyboard ceases as she begins to think. "How about Operation Llama?"

What? "Llama?" I repeat. "Why?"

"I like llamas."

"Um, I don't really think Abigail will agree to that name," I say as carefully as I can.

"Doesn't she like llamas?"

"I think…she's more of an alpaca person," I continue slowly. So much for my careful treading—by Caroline's expression, one would have thought I had just cursed out her grandmother.

"Blasphemy!" she cries. "Alpacas are llama impostors! Sure, they're less spitty, but it's all a clever ruse! They lure you in with their cuteness and non-spitty charm but then…they're back stabbers. Total back stabbers." Without a look in my direction (thank goodness; I wouldn't have known how to respond to _that_ tirade) she returns to the hacking-slash-gibberish.

I begin a "what not to do around Caroline" list—right at the top is "don't get into a discussion about alpacas." What a weird way to start such a list. I hope this isn't some sort of omen. Well, I know it's not a bad omen; I would have broken a shoelace this morning.

"Hey Abigail," Caroline sighs as she enters the room.

"Hi…how's it coming?" Something's not right—she seems antsy.

"Well, it's coming."

"Hey Ben, can I talk to you for a second? In the kitchen?" Yeah, she's anxious all right. And I thought naps were supposed to be relaxing.

"Um…" she begins, twirling a loose strand of hair absently. "I've been thinking…what if this whole operation isn't such a good idea?"

That's out of the blue. "Why wouldn't it be?"

Her face contorts into all sorts of grimaces as she tries to find the right words. "We don't really know much about the uh, happenings of what went on." Fortunately she's being discrete, or else Caroline will overhear us and I don't want to go there just yet.

"So? We'll bust him out, he'll explain everything, and we'll go prove his innocence!" It's such a basic idea—what can she find wrong in it?

"Ben…I'm going to sound like a broken record…but what if he's not?"

"Not what?"

"Not innocent. What if he's not innocent?"

"People change…" I murmur, and it's the only sound I can make before my voice is rendered useless by her point crash landing into my brain.

"Yes, people do change, but the evidence is simply overwhelming. They probably even did DNA tests for verification."

"What if it was an accident?"

"Ben, for God's sake—"

Abigail's face completely disappears—

"…_for God's sake, it's like stealing a national monument…it's like stealing _him_! It's not that it _shouldn't _be done, it _can't _be done! Let me prove it to you…"_

"—are you even listening to me?"

That's it. I need to get out of this house and away from this, all of this…back to when everything was all right, when everything wasn't so complicated, when I at least thought I knew who my best friend was. "I'm going into town."

"What? Why?"

"I just—I just need to think, Abigail." I walk brusquely past her and grab the keys to my car from the key bowl. In less than six seconds I'm out the door and pulling away.

The dam I always keep my emotions behind, the one that held strong even in the water-filled chamber in Cìbola, slowly begins to crack. By the time I pass the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building, it's just a pile of rubble. Tears of frustration and confusion and who knows what leak from my eyes as I glance at those two rows of trees across the block.

"…_but one step short of crazy, what do you get?"_

"_Obsessed!"_

"_Passionate."_

I don't know what to believe anymore.

Somehow I end up at the Lincoln Memorial, sitting at exactly the same spot as the last time I came here. I don't know where I parked the car. I don't even remember walking over here in my daze. The cheerful tourists, the cloudless sky—everything is achingly familiar, and the only difference continually pierces my chest with physical pain.

"—_it's upside down—"_

Everything's upside down, and all the blood's rushing to my head.

"Nice day for sightseeing."

That voice—it doubles the pain as flashes from that fateful evening pass in quick bursts before me like a violent strobe light. One second I'm seeing Riley struggle against the agents, the next the reflecting pool, then his giant bagel drawing, then the mustachioed face of none other than Peter Sadusky.

"Are you OK, Ben? You seem a little tense."

Did he seriously just ask me that? Is he actually sitting down next to me in a futile attempt to comfort me? It takes all I have not to yell some rather unkind words.

"I seem tense, do I?" I mutter, suppressing many a four letter word. "I wonder why that is." I hope he catches the frigidity as well as the sarcasm. How can he act so concerned and friendly when _he's_ the one who did this to us, who exposed Riley? Riley hadn't been doing anything wrong; he'd been doing nothing but right since we teamed up together.

"Ben, I…"

"What?"

Sadusky has his hands clasped and head down slightly as he did in Trinity Church. An emotion that I would expect he rarely experiences flashes briefly across his face—exasperation. "…I don't know."

My anger towards the agent ebbs quickly as I realize Sadusky's the last person who would admit that. Sadusky: the imperturbable, infallible agent…is lost for words?

"How's Abigail?"

"…fine."

"Your parents?"

"…fine."

"And you?"

I open my mouth to answer "fine" again but quickly close it. Fine? I'm the furthest thing from it—a wreck. My many experiences with the possibility of death didn't leave me this bad. Those bullets missed the vital organs that Riley's arrest seem to be destroying. And it's such an agonizing way to internally die.

"Not fine?" he finally guesses.

"No…" I admit. "Shouldn't you…I don't know…be at work or something?"

"I stepped out to get some air, to reflect a little…" He tilts his head toward the sun above, his eyes tiny slits. "It bothers me too, Ben." After a brief pat on the shoulder, he gets up and walks down a couple steps, pausing. He looks back and gives me the sort of smile that's really more of a grimace than a smile and continues on his way.

What a complicated man…

"_I'm innocent…let me prove it to you…I've brought you to the Library of Congress. Why? Because it's the biggest library in the world--over twenty million books. And they're all saying the same thing: _listen_ to Riley…"_

_He's standing behind the ledge in his gray suit, Converses, and black rectangular glasses with flaming red hair. Pleading, his blue eyes stare me down._

"_Here we have a whole layout of what I did—dates, times, what information I took—but look here." He holds up a frayed and battered volume open in front of me and points to the inside of the spine. "There's a missing page. It's been missing since day one, and it's the most crucial piece. Do you think it's on the Charlotte, or does Mitch have it? Ben? Ben?"_

"BEN!"

Whoa—darkness, Caroline…what just happened?

"I've been trying to wake you up for the past ten minutes," she laughs. Groggily, I sit up, back pinging from sleeping on marble steps, and look around. The monument is abandoned except for us two. "Good thing I didn't have to resort to _this_." In her hand is a large loaf of French bread—perfect for hitting someone with. "I was told to go buy one for dinner…and to go find you. Abigail was worried."

Wow. I don't even recall falling asleep. As Caroline readjusts her hold on the bread so it's over her shoulder, I look past her towards the reflecting pool; the glasslike sheen of the water holds another full moon, only distorted when a duck swims past. "You like ducks?"

"Huh?"

Oh God, did I just pull a Sadusky? "There's a…uh, duck over there…sorry, just sort of popped out."

After a brief glance at said duck, she turns back at gives me a strange look. "Uh-huh…" She must think I'm the weirdest person she's ever met. Who asks about duck preferences? Well, besides Sadusky, but I guess he doesn't count since he's in the FBI. (_Somehow_ that makes sense.)

"Are you OK?" She sits down beside me, in Sadusky's place. "You really seemed…well, I don't know, freaked out about _something_ this afternoon."

I have to admit, Caroline is very perceptive. That's useful and all—except for right now. What exactly she heard Abigail and I discuss I have no idea; I feel bad keeping her in the dark, but if she knows just who we're springing from jail…there goes our help. "Well, uh…yeah." What happened to that clever story I just thought of?

"Care to explain?"

"…not particularly."

At this she raises an eyebrow and turns her attention to the duck. "Why aren't you guys telling me anything? Are you really that scared of me not helping if I knew?"

That's it—mind reader, she's a mind reader. And nothing's coming to mind for me to say back, so there goes that skill's usefulness.

"Well, are you?"

Oh geez, what do I say? "Um…" Yeah, _that's_ pretty definitive.

"It doesn't matter," she sighs. "I couldn't leave even if I wanted to now. I got a call a few hours ago telling me I'm being evicted from my apartment."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Don't be…it was that stupid job that _required_ us to be up-to-date with all the latest technology. It drained my paycheck to the point I could only pay for food and a couple bills." She shrugs, and I wonder how she can be so nonchalant about something like that.

"So…" she sighs again. "If I blindly follow, will I figure out exactly what I'm doing?"

"Er…eventually."

"That's all I needed to know. But I've got something that might cheer you up." Before I can even blink, she pulls out her yellow laptop and turns it on. "I got in. And I have a plan."

Music to my ears. A plan to me right now is almost like we've already rescued him—at least it shows we care, and I'm not sure if Riley still wholly believes that…or if he even believes that we're coming back like I promised. My nightmares, I realize as Caroline's computer loads, now have some variety. Occasionally I'll have one about the arrest, but most of the time I'll see him alone and miserable in his little cell, with that dead, cold, look in his eyes. Seeing him that way…I can't imagine anything more haunting.

"OK," she says after a minute. "See here?" On her screen is a diagram of the infamous prison and her index finger is pointing at a line above a row of cells. "Air ducts, and they all run above the high-security cells."

"What about…y'know, unlocking the cell doors?" That seems like the most obvious idea.

"They've got some _insane_ firewall. We'd need Riley McLaughlin to get through _that_ thing." I'm grateful her attention doesn't stray from the screen; otherwise she'd have seen the irony of her statement written across my face. "But the air duct locks are much more accessible. The only issue is getting to the entrance, which is directly above the receptionist guard's desk."

At this I actually laugh out loud—whether it's because I'm tired or it really is that funny I have no idea, and neither does Caroline. "That guard isn't too bright," I say once I calm down. "We know from experience."

"Well that's wonderful. I'll leave what to do with him up to you." Her eyes widen briefly in a "what the heck is wrong with him" sort of way. "I also checked the alarms and such on these cells here…2261A has all these extra features." She glances over hopefully.

"That's the one we need to get into."

"I was afraid you'd say that," she groans. "It has a couple cameras, unlike the other ones…'cause I mean…if an alarm's going to go off if you open anything to get out, a camera's overkill. And…it's got a body heat sensor. It'll go off if he's not there or if there are more people in there with him. _And_ it can sense up into the air ducts above him."

Talk about paranoid—or overprecaution, I guess. The excited feeling I got when she told me about the beginnings of the plan is taking a beating. "Well…" What's happened to the Ben who could think on his feet? "If none of the other cells around 2261A have that sensor, then we could sit above the one next door and roll out a really long rope ladder if you could open the vent electronically. And then we could toss down into the cell a pillow stuffed with heating pads."

There. A solution. "If we work on the timing and get the kinks out, that could work. Nice job, Ben." She smiles as she types some notes of what I just suggested. "This could very well be put into action within the next week as long as you're up to it."

"We came up with a plan to steal the Declaration in about that amount of time," I chuckle. What a bit of good news can do to your mood!

"Ah, right," she says, shutting the laptop. "I almost forgot."

XXX

Onward with the rescuing! Suddenly I have the urge to grab a stick, hold it up in the air, and yell "SPARTA!"…but I'll gladly refrain.

Please forgive me for irregularities in updates. And review. That'd be nice, too.


	7. Chapter 7

Why is it that weekends are uber busy and weekdays aren't, even with school? Strange. But anyways…on to the much-anticipated Chapter 7!

**Disclaimer: Please go back to one of the previous six chapters and read any one of them. They still apply here, OK?**

Chapter 7 

"The moment of truth"—it's a phrase I've tried to avoid on our adventures. After each phase, we could never be truly sure if that step was the last or would even seem to help in the overall goal. But this time feels different for some reason. Maybe it's because this really _is_ the final step (I hope) or after tonight we will finally hear what Riley has to say. He's innocent…I can feel it, or perhaps I'm blindly believing it without looking at the evidence to the contrary, just like with Thomas Gates. I was right then, but then we had our own proof. What proof we have now is just our knowledge of Riley's character—and for all we know, that could be a cleverly built façade.

I don't think so.

"Ben?" Abigail says with a slap on my forearm. "Did you hear me?"

"Oh…uh, no I didn't, sorry." I should really stop phasing out when I go on internal monologues.

"She was saying that this is the first illegal operation you've done not in a tux," Caroline laughs from the driver's seat. We're taking her old, nondescript white minivan—technically, no one else knows she's working with us.

"So it seems," I agree, looking down at my garb. "Do you think I'll pass for a heating and cooling maintenance guy?"

"Just so long as your fake mustache doesn't fall off in front of a guard," she mutters as she pulls the van off the road, just beside the path up to the prison, and cuts the engine. "Now…take these." She hands us ear-pieces. "There's a sort of tracking device in each of them so I can watch your positions, mostly you, Ben. You have to deal with those stupid heat sensors." Out of her cooler of Frappuchinos comes a plastic bottle of what looks like water. "Lay it on thick, Froline," she chuckles.

"Wait…" I never remember hearing anything about a bottled water. "What's with the—"

"I'm supposed to…y'know, _flirt_ with Carl. I'll convince him to drink this, and it'll knock him out long enough to do what we need to do." Abigail says, tightening her bun.

"Right…right…" I mutter as I slide the door open. When I grab my magic sack full of supplies, I bet I look like a nonbearded young Santa in a navy janitor's jumpsuit. "Let's get this over with." I hear the door slam behind me and Abigail's shoes crunching over the rocks and twigs as she runs to catch up.

"Can you hear me now?" Caroline's voice crackles in my ear.

"Sure can."

"Awesome. I'll get to work opening the front gate. Surprisingly, it's not as hard as the cell doors." I have a strong hunch she's rolling her eyes. "Check back with me when you get there."

As soon as we start up the trail, Abigail walks quite a bit closer to me; I don't blame her. The forest around here is beautiful in daylight but downright creepy after nightfall. The moonlight makes all sorts of eerie shadows and every rustle of leaves or snapping branch sends us flying out of our shoes. Not only could it be some vicious animal—it could also be (though unlikely) an escaped prisoner, perhaps armed with a rusty chainsaw. I don't point out that last bit to Abigail; she's freaked out as it is.

"Ben?" she says after a while. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah, of course. We've been working on this plan nonstop."

"Well, yeah…" I guess that isn't what she was referring to. "But do you think you're ready for…the truth?"

If she's implying what I think she's implying, she must be convinced that I'm wrong. "So you think he's guilty?"

"The proof is overwhelming. And what he did can't really be done 'accidentally.'" As she says this, she stumbles a little over a rock. "What I'm saying isn't going to change your opinion at all, is it?"

"Then why are you helping me?"

We come upon the clearing, the location of the entrance; a group of those annoying squirrels instantly scatter.

"I don't care if he's guilty or not. He's—" She pauses and rethinks her wording to be more vague. "He looked messed up, and that bothered me. The way he stared at you towards the end—I don't think he could believe that you and I actually risked that _much_ for him. To tell the truth, I've had a nightmare or two about it over the past few weeks." She sighs and leans against my shoulder. "I don't want him to be guilty, but I don't see how that could be possible."

As I give her a one-armed hug, I kiss the top of her head. "Everything'll be fine."

"How can you be so sure?" It's barely a whisper and for a moment, I thought it was a stray gust of wind. "Caroline," she says at normal volume. "We're here."

"Alrighty then. And could you be a little less vague the next time you have a dramatic moment?" she adds with a laugh. I have to admit, I'm surprised she hasn't figured it out already to some degree. Maybe it's not as obvious as I think. "Door's open. Good luck, you two."

On the too-familiar rock face appears the same steel door. The reflection from the glow of the moon seems kind of ominous. "Let's go, Abigail." The door opens with a metallic squeak and slams shut.

Let the games begin.

"Oh—uh, 'scuse me," Carl says, jumping up from his chair.

"Hello, m'boy!" I exclaim. "I'm here to check on something up in the air system—"

"I don't remember hearing anything about that—"

"—and I found this young lady here wandering around outside saying she wanted to talk with some guy named Carl." I throw in a casual shrug as I point over my shoulder to Abigail.

Carl's brow furrows into his patented thinking face. "Froline Schaufenburg? You're Mr. Howe's secretary! What are you—wait." Suddenly he looks crestfallen. "You don't speak English."

Abigail must have been in acting or something in high school; her blushing, nervous-schoolgirl expression is flawless. "I…uh, learned some," she says slowly with an exaggerated accent. "I wanted…to say 'hello.'" As an added effect, she giggles a bit. I wouldn't fall for it, but maybe that's just because I know Abigail too well.

"Oh—gosh!" Carl, too, is now blushing even under his tanned skin. Poor kid: he's lost for words. I hope he learns that he needs to switch jobs after tonight.

"Wow," she continues as planned. Her hand fans her face while she glances, confused, around the hallway. "Is it…um, usually this hot…in here? You must be very…thirsty."

"Yeah," he sighs without taking his eyes off her face. "I'm parched." Pity for the young man momentarily wells up. He didn't ask for this…but I guess that's what you get for working as a prison guard.

"I have…some water, if you…want it."

"Thanks, Froline!" Carl takes the bottle from Abigail, gaze still glued, and absently gulps down a few sips. "That's refreshing."

And then he collapses—crumples, more like it.

"Caroline," Abigail sighs with a hint of boredom. "Target One is out." She hops over the desk, and I'm close behind. "Now where's the entrance to the air ducts?"

"…Um…right above you." We both look upward right as the vent door clicks open. "It's unlocked."

"Here. Climb on this." Shoved into the back of my calves is Carl's chair. His rolly chair. His _unstable_ rolly chair. "Don't look at me like that, Ben," Abigail adds.

"Fine." After some displays of super-strength from Abigail and a couple of near-fatal slips, my bag and I find ourselves scrunched into quite a small space.

"Are you all right?" she calls up quietly.

"Just…dandy…" I grunt, trying to get into a workable position, which ends up being a variation of crawling on my hands and knees. This version is definitely more cramped. "Are you going to be OK?" I say once I'm as close to comfortable as I'm going to get.

"I'll be fine. Just go!" Without another word, she snaps the vent door shut.

"All right, Caroline. Where are we going?"

"Go straight and take the first right. I'll tell you when to stop before the sensors."

OK, the first right. That shouldn't be too terribly far from here. Even still, it's very slow going. Every so often, my bag hitches on to a screw along the walls and won't budge unless I throw my entire weight behind it. That's a whole minute wasted right there. Did they really have to make these ducts so tiny? Well, I guess they were kind of hoping people wouldn't be crawling around in here, but still.

"Whoa there, Speedy Gonzolas!" she says after about half an hour of crawling. "You just passed the turn."

I'm glad I finally made it, but now having to pull this infernal sack from behind is not going to be much fun. I just _had_ to miss the turn. "Great. How far?"

"Not very…inch forward…"

Actually, it would be more accurate to say "millimeter" forward at the rate I'm going. Or "nanometer." I don't know…just something very small.

"OK…little bit further…bit further—stop."

Ahead of me lies the vent to Riley's cell, his escape route. Although it's identical to every other one I passed on the way, the sight of it floods me with relief.

"Ben?"

"Yeah?"

"I've got the cameras turned off—it shows whoever's in there asleep. I couldn't tell who; it was dark. I don't have any feed of what's going on right now, so all we can do it hope Mr. Prisoner is awake. Got everything ready?"

"Yeah." For such an important moment, I would have expected it to be a little more dramatic than having the vent fall open silently, a rope ladder (with note attached) rolling along the path of the duct and into the hole. Am I expecting background music to start playing or something?

"Is he, she…whoever…" Caroline sighs. "Are they coming up yet?"

"No," I mutter, shaking the ladder. The knots where the rungs are attached clang loudly against the metal floor. As long as I've known him, Riley has never been what anyone would call a "light" sleeper, so that effort was probably pointless. "There aren't any microphones in this cell, are there?"

"Mm…nope."

"Good." I take a deep breath and call, "Hey!" Silence. "I only needed to find one way to make it work, and here it is!" Thank God—I hear some movement below, followed by a dramatic increase in the ladder's tension. "We've got him," I murmur.

"Awesome. I'm going to go check on Abigail, 'K? Make sure to stick to the plan." The low buzz of static in my ear cuts off—Riley and I are finally alone.

"Ben?" Slowly, a head of red hair peeks over the edge, the rest of his face following. In his hand is the yellow Post-It note that had been attached to the ladder. "You—you're here."

"Don't act so surprised," I say with a smile as he clambers through the vent.

Riley doesn't immediately begin to crawl towards me like I thought he would; instead, he sits, hunched over in the confined space and breathing heavily, with a slew of emotions flying across his face. Relief is covered by confusion, which is then drowned in joy and overshadowed by doubt—where it stays. And guilt: guilt's there too, inexplicably.

"You…came," he murmurs again. There's still no eye contact.

"Like I said before, don't act so surprised." I wait for him to say something else, but nothing comes. "OK. They've got sensors that pick up on body heat past the point where I'm sitting, so in order to get you completely free, you have to cross this line right when I toss the 'fake-you' over."

"Fake-me?"

Enter fake Riley: one of Dad's old off-white pillowcases is stuffed full of those fancy heating pads that have some special chemical compound that keeps it hot for what seems like days on end. "Ta-da!"

"I'm a pillowcase?"

"Not just _any_ pillowcase. This, my friend, is a pillowcase that's at normal body temperature." Come on, Riley—smile! Please? Well, maybe he's still half asleep.

"So…do you want me to start crawling over?" Briefly, his eyes glance up; they have the same effect as an icicle piercing my chest. What could possibly be bothering him that much?—he's escaping, after all.

"Sure, come on.!" As he passes over the threshold to freedom, I throw Riley-the-pillowcase into the vent door with the precision of a professional basketball player. In my mind, I pretend Riley's his old self and says "Swoosh! Two points!" in the background. But he doesn't—I can't even tell if he's thinking anything along the lines of a normal Rileyism.

"Nice." Yeah, that's not a normal Rileyism.

In silence we crawl back towards where Abigail still (hopefully) is. Meanwhile, my mind is racing—what's wrong with Riley, are we going to get out OK, what really happened? The same questions play over and over again like a scratched CD without a stop button.

"Abigail." We finally reach the end, right about when the silence was about to drive me insane.

"Oh—you two need some help?" Without even waiting for an answer, she slides Carl's rolly chair over. "I'm holding it still." Riley and I both miraculously make it with all bones intact.

"Let's get out of here," I mutter.

"Right," she says. Her glance falls upon Riley and she squeezes his shoulder. "Nice to have you back."

"Yeah…well," Shifting away from her touch, he shuffles toward the front entrance door in that same dejected fog. "You say that _now_…" What else he says is lost as the volume fades into incoherent mutterings.

"We're out," I say into my ear piece as Abigail and I follow after him.

"Right-o. I'm starting the car." Over the static, I hear Caroline turn the ignition.

Somehow the hike down seems a lot shorter than the other way around—maybe the fact that we can say "mission accomplished" is speeding up the clock. Whatever it is, I'm not complaining; it's quite the opposite as the van comes into view. My eagerness to leave this forsaken area behind leads me to slam the door open harder than necessary.

"Woohoo!" Caroline exclaims as we climb in. "So who exactly is it that I—" And then she sees him. "Riley McLaughlin?" she says incredulously. "You got me to bust _him_ out of jail?"

Riley's eyes are getting to be as large as dinner plates, but then he covers them with his hands as soon as he finds a seat.

"Well, uh…" I stammer. "Yes, yes, technically—"

"Riley _McLaughlin?_"

"Well, y'know…in the past he has had black hair…helped me find treasure…gone by the name Riley Poole…" My overly casual voice slowly trails off as I hope this will diffuse the situation. But of course, it only seems to make things worse.

"Poole?" Caroline asks. "Riley _Poole_, did you say?" Hesitantly, Abigail nods. "Riley," she calls to he back. "Please move your hands off your eyes."

He does so reluctantly, shifting them so they're cupped around his nose and mouth. With a trace of apprehension in his muffled voice he mutters, "Hi, Caroline…"

"Wait…" I say. "You two…"

"You two know each other?" Abigail finishes.

"Know each other?" Caroline exclaims. "We're _engaged!_"

XXX

Yes, oh so many questions. Oh so many questions that will be answered in the next chapter after this Infernal Deathly Cliffhanger of Doom and Destruction. Terribly sorry. I will try not to keep you waiting long.

**Interesting tidbit from my boring life: my physics teacher today got off track in class and started telling us about his kids. His son's name? Riley. I-ron-ic.**

**Please review! **


	8. Chapter 8

Yes, I realize cliffhangers are no fun. I'm sorry I left you to hang on a proverbial cliff…or something along those lines. More answers to come in this chapter…and more in the next as well.

**Disclaimer: Well…**_**my**_** disclaimer is my little buddy Freddy. This is Freddy, and I'm sure you've seen him around :. He disclaims everything and fights lawyers who think I want to do something other than have a bit of fun with these characters. Yay for Freddy!**

**Anyways…**

Chapter 8 

The entire drive home—all five hours—has been a blur. It's funny to think that the three other times we've made the trek seemed so short, but this time it feels four hours longer. Severe awkwardness in confined spaces has that stretching effect on time, I suppose.

The atmospheres in each of the three rows of seats are immensely different—in the back, Riley is sitting, bent over, with his hands over his face and occasionally sighing. I haven't been able to get a word out of him at all. On the other hand, Caroline and Abigail in the front are all hushed mutterings, or at least Caroline is. Every facet of her frustration and anger (which I can't explain in the least bit) is transferred into more miles on the speedometer. Hopefully Abigail's attempting to calm her, but there's no way to tell being in the middle—figuratively _and_ literally.

Me, I'm still trying to get over the shock that Riley's engaged. In a relationship, I could kind of expect, but _engaged_? I honestly have never heard the name "Caroline Essex" come out of his mouth. Ever. I obviously never met her before a week ago, and for the past three years that he's been with Abigail and I, he's tried to pick up a girlfriend. None of the pieces fit—or I'm still missing some crucial ones. Every so often, Abigail glances back, looking rather lost. I suspect Caroline's ranting has become less coherent as we approach home, which we finally do.

And I mean finally.

Caroline immediately jumps from the car and heads straight inside, leaving the front door slightly ajar. Riley refuses to budge.

"C'mon, Riley," Abigail coaxes. "It's been a long day; we can figure out everything in the morning."

He still doesn't move or even acknowledge that she said anything. Back and forth he rocks, lost in his own confusion and what I guess is downright embarrassment.

"I'm going to be inside, OK you two?" she says with a significant look at me. As the sound of gravel crunching beneath her feet fades, I turn back to Riley.

"Hey…" I switch seats into the back row. "Putting what just happened with Caroline aside for later…" At this, he seems to relax a bit. "What's wrong? You seem so unlike yourself."

Silence follows, pierced by another one of his lone sarcastic chuckles. "You came for me."

"What?"

"You heard what I said. 'You came for me.'"

"Wha—Why would you be so…so…upset and cold over the fact that we rescued you?"

He turns his head in my direction, smiling broadly, and speaks with a sort of cheerful cynicism. "You think I'm innocent, don't you?"

This can't…he can't mean…"W-well…" I stutter. "That's what I'd like to—that's what I _do_ believe."

He shakes his head, still wearing a cheery expression, voice almost dripping with a non-Rileyistic sarcasm. "Quite the contrary. I did it. What's new?" By that last part, the exuberance evaporates and is replaced by melancholy as he hangs his head.

"Riley—" I grab his shoulder and force him to look at me. "—you wanted to tell us something when you were first arrested. There _have_ to be more details, more to the story—"

"The general public doesn't care about the fucking details, so why should you?" He glares intently for about half a second and then turns away. "I'm sorry…that wasn't necessary…"

His anger is absolutely gut-wrenching. The Riley I know isn't supposed to be angry at all—pessimistic, maybe—but never…never like this. Before, I never even heard him mutter a swear (unless you count that time he dropped a hammer on his foot) even in the worst parts of our adventures. It's only been as Riley McLaughlin that his language has been so colorful. "Are you…are you mad at me for coming for you?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"…Why?"

"'Cause you springing me from jail is throwing your life away! Ben, you're _involved_ now. Why did you do it? To prove my innocence? There's nothing _to_ prove, Ben! This was a waste of your time, a waste of your life, for crying out loud. They're going to catch us, Ben," he says with a trace of fear in his voice, finally meeting my gaze. "They always do…always. And this time…Caroline and Abigail and you are coming back with me. I can't…I can't stand it!" He slams his fists into the tops of his thighs in frustration, squeezing his eyelids shut. Literally wrung from his eyes are a few stray tears. "You guys were never supposed to come. I was meant to be in prison—ever since…_it_. _It_ changed everything…and now _it_ has ruined everything for everyone that wasn't supposed to be affected. It's all my fault."

"Riley…"

"It's all my fault," he repeats. "You all are going to jail…and it's all because of me. I shouldn't ever have met you—"

"What? That's crazy—"

"At least then you could be looking forward to something more than the inside of a prison cell! If you hadn't ever met me, then you wouldn't have felt the need to spring Riley McLaughlin from jail…you wouldn't be just as marked for incarceration as I am…you could be so…much better off.

If words and emotion could kill, I would have been long dead. So much feeling—pity, brotherly affection, disbelief—is coursing through my every blood vessel, creating a ball of tension and pain in the center of my chest. How could he have possibly been thinking that?

He begins to cry in earnest, and I instantly pull him into a hug. Muffled by my shoulder, his sobs slowly diminish into heavy but quiet breathing. "It wasn't supposed to be this way," he sniffs.

"I know…I know…" I sigh. "But we're going to fix it."

"How can we fix something if we don't have any glue?"

"Hasn't anybody told you? I have an industrial-size bottle of super glue stashed in the attic."

He lifts his head slightly. "By the box of costumes?" Finally and to my great relief, he cracks a grin. How can he _not_ grin while remembering when I discovered the box? I dressed up in a cheap plastic knight outfit for pete's sake.

"Yes, by the costume box."

"Is it a good brand?"

"Never fails."

He goes to open his mouth, but closes it before making a sound. Instead, he sighs deeply. "Well," he says, climbing over towards the van door. "Let's see what your glue can do; I'll…I'll explain in the morning, OK?" He jumps onto the gravel with a crunch.

"Riley—"

Mechanically, he swivels back around. I notice with a joyful pang that his eyes hold a more typical, less cold, Riley feeling.

"I could never be better off without you."

And for the first time in nearly two months, I see him truly, sincerely smile.

XXX

Returning home at four in the morning definitely warranted sleeping in, and that is exactly what I happened. I honestly don't remember the last time I slept until noon. Perhaps it's because my memory's being clouded by my breakfast-lacking stomach. On to the kitchen, then.

"G'morning," Caroline greets dully. She's sitting on the counter—juggling three oranges.

"Uh…why are you—"

"Juggling? I juggle things when I need to keep my mind off something. Oranges seemed to be the least fragile thing around." Unfortunately for her, it doesn't look like the distraction tactic is working all that well. "Abigail went to get some stuff for a nice lunch…since…we kind of have to be out of here by five-thirty this afternoon."

"Right…" She calculated that either the heat pads would stop working or that the guards would eventually discover Riley's gone by then. Apparently it has to do with meal schedules or something. Suddenly, her eyes squint even further into a hard glare.

"Riley."

And so it is: Riley is standing in the doorway, clad in green-gray pajama pants with white plaid and a black tee-shirt. It said something funny once but the paint's worn off; it was something like "Sometimes I wonder why the frisbee's getting bigger. And then it hits me." But it's not Riley McLaughlin standing there; it's Riley Poole—he's redyed his hair.

"Uh…hi," he murmurs sheepishly.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm just…" He halfway points at the pantry. "I'm going to eat some Cookie Crisp."

I've got a bad feeling about this: my shouting-match sensors are freaking out. Usually they're pretty accurate.

"Oh yeah," Caroline says sarcastically. "That's _so_ healthy. Maybe afterwards you can go hack into the CIA again to see what they _really_ put in that cereal."

Yeah, this isn't heading in a good direction.

"Well maybe after you finish juggling those oranges you can go make out with Gerald Austin again!"

_Fwack_—the orange that was flying through the air lands on the wooden floor and is the only sound that pierces the roaring silence. "Other room. _Now_." Hopping off the counter, she pushes past me and roughly drags Riley by the forearm into the study. The door slams behind them but does nothing to block out their conversation. All I can do is sight tight and ride it out.

"When did you _ever_ see me with that sketchball? You know I hate Gerald!"

"Apparently not! The day I was leaving to go work for Ben—do you remember that day?" I'm guessing she does; Caroline doesn't immediately say anything. "Yeah, _now_ you do. I was coming in to say goodbye, and Stefan told me you and Gerald went into the staff lounge a few minutes prior. So I go over in that general direction and what do I see? You and him swapping spit!"

"You don't—"

"Understand? I don't understand? What is there _not_ to understand? I had proposed to you five days earlier—five days! And then that…what was I supposed to think?"

"You could have at least _called_ me in the past three years! You don't even know the half of what's happened to me because of you!"

"Because of _me_?"

"Remember the night you proposed to me? Remember what we did?" Silence—there are a number of things she could be referring to, of course. No need to jump to conclusions… "Yeah, well…I'm not going to beat around the bush. You got me pregnant."

Oh my god.

Not only was my first conclusion correct, but now…holy Lord. I'm so glad I can't see their faces.

"No, don't look at me like that. I couldn't take care of him, so I put him up for adoption," she continues.

"Why didn't…you ever tell me?"

"'Cause I thought you didn't want to have anything to do with me anymore. Here," she says, followed by a clink of metal on wood. "We never really did break it off formally. You can have your stupid ring back." Another door off the study, the one by the stairwell I presume, slams as Riley trudges back into the kitchen. He looks utterly dazed.

"I am such an ass…and obviously a horrible father. Father…?" His footing unsteady, he holds his hand up to the wall for support. "God, I've screwed everyone over, haven't I?"

I have no idea what to say to him. This mess with he and Caroline is too convoluted for anyone—not even Oprah—to make any sense of. And of all the things I picture Riley to be, a father isn't one of them. At least not now. Well, when words fail, turn to food. Out comes the Cookie Crisp. "Here."

Reluctantly he takes the bowl, sits down, and absently stirs the little cookie pieces until they're nothing but unidentifiable mush and stray chunks of chocolate. "My life is so messed up," he mutters.

"At least the only way it can go now is up," I say as I pull up a chair beside him.

"Heh…you don't know. I've thought those exact words many, many times and I'm still in a downward spiral." With a partly disgusted face, he scoops up a spoonful of the cereal mush and watches it fall back into the bowl.

"So…are you going to tell us what happened?"

"Yeah…once we eat lunch and Caroline can stand to look at me again." Sighing, he gets back up. "I'm going to take a nap."

"You just woke up."

"Still tired."

Well, I would be too after waking up to _that_ argument.

"Hey…" Abigail says as she walks in with the most perfect timing I have ever seen. "Where is everyone?" She seems concerned—and rightly so.

"Riley and Caroline had a confrontation," I say simply, cleaning up his cereal dishes. A look of realization crosses her face.

"I actually understood some of her ranting in the car last night, but it made no sense out of context." She pauses and sets the bags of groceries down. "You did hear their argument, then?"

"Hard not to."

"Well…variations of one particular phrase came up often. It usually went something like, 'I can't _believe_ him, unless he saw…but can't he understand that it was forced on me and that it was all Gerald?'"

Dammit—why does everything always have to be such a bug misunderstanding? And now…now it's coupled with the FBI and a three-year-old kid out there somewhere. No matter what he's told me before, I doubt he would believe me if I went and told him about this. I have no evidence at all. "Abigail, let me help cook. I need a distraction."

XXX

More plot twists and more drama. Fun, fun.

**The whole "costume box in the attic" thing had its own side-story that I wrote, but I gave it to one of my friends to read before I typed it up, and he LOST it. There's no way I can recreate it, and I am quite mad. My other friend who read it before it was lost really thought it was funny, too. (tear)**

**Creepy coincidence of my life number 2: In French class this week, we listened to this song by French rapper MC Solaar that (according to my teacher's translation) was about him seeing his girlfriend with another guy. I was thinking, "hey, that's like Riley in my fanfiction." But then my teacher told us the name of the song: "Caroline." Weird. Really weird. **

**Please review! It'll inspire me to get past my writer's block in chapter 9!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Onwards to chapter nine! **

**And…I bring tidings of great joy: Disney has begun talks for National Treasure 3…and possibly 4!!! (dances around the room in a goofy uncoordinated fashion) But…numero tres isn't coming out until December of 2010 at the earliest. (boo.)**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own them. Disney owns them. Why would I even want to own them when Disney's making more sequels? Go ahead, Disney! Have fun! I'll be at the midnight premier!**

Chapter 9 

Abigail—yet again—made her German pot roast, with its not-distinctly-German flavor. And I've noticed something: pot roast seems to be the universal thing for dinner whenever anyone's upset. Being comforted after a dramatic moment? Let's go eat some pot roast! I mean, really. What makes pot roast so special? I can think of about ten other foods that could be more comforting _and_ take less time to cook. But no. It's _got_ to be pot roast.

And in case you haven't noticed, I rant about nothing when I'm anxious. Nothing could make me more so than I am right at this very moment.

Because Riley is standing before us, getting ready to explain.

I guess we could have done this whole arrangement differently to not make him so nervous—Abigail, Caroline and I are squished onto the couch in the living room, looking like we're ready for some big presentation. "Riley," I say, pointing to a chair. "You can—"

"Thanks." He pulls the chair over, turns it so the back is facing us, and sits in it so he too is facing us, his legs poking out on either side. "So," he sighs.

"So," Caroline repeats, throwing her hand into the air.

"I would appreciate it if you would refrain from interrupting me."

After a quick glare, she sticks her tongue out, Riley returning it.

"OK," Abigail says. "We're all adults here—"

"Wow! You _are_ Riley?" Caroline exclaims sarcastically.

"Shut up, Caroline."

"HEY!" There—silence. And all I had to do was shout. That wasn't so difficult. "Let him talk. Go ahead."

I was wrong before when I said breaking him out was the "moment of truth"—_this_ is, quite literally. After all this time, all this worry and doubt, we will finally understand what we should have known from day one of this whole ordeal.

"All right," he sighs, readjusting his glasses. "Where to begin?" For a moment he rests his chin on the back of the chair; his eyes flick up at each of us in turn, staying on Caroline a bit longer than Abigail or myself. "Well." His posture immediately straightens. "Here it is.

"As you probably already discovered, Ben and Abigail, when I was going to Georgetown, I was planning on majoring in computer science and Arabic. I had figured that if I wanted to work for the government, that would be a pretty useful language to know. In my junior year, I decided to study abroad in Saudi Arabia. So I, in my happy-go-lucky, twenty-year-old self, merrily skipped off to the Middle East.

"Everything was fine for the first few months, really. The other students at the university were pretty amazed at what I could do with a computer and often hounded me to hack into a game and get all the cheats for them. However, word of my ability got out…and that's where the trouble started.

"On the night of December 8, 2002, members of some secret foreign terrorist organization broke into my dorm room and kidnapped me. I'll spare you the gory details," he says, grimacing and looking down briefly.

At this point, one question is going through my head—why has this never been publicly revealed?

"So," he continues. "I was taken to their headquarters back in their country, with laptop and all. They weren't all that friendly, y'know…being terrorists and all. Basically, I had a gun put to my head and was told that if I didn't go steal security secrets from the CIA and NSA, then they'd kill me. In addition to me keeping my life, they said we were to sell this information to the country's ruler—I still had no clue where I was—and I was to get half the money and return to the States immediately. My involvement in the scandal, they assured me, would be kept secret.

"Well, I came back with the intent of donating every last penny of the money to some charitable cause and to get on with my life and at least try to act like it never happened, despite my horrendous guilt. Unfortunately, those guys were a bunch of pathological liars. An agent of theirs within the US leaked the whole thing to every government agency that he could contact. Don't you guys remember? His code name was 'Deep Esophagus'—"

"_Really_ original," Caroline mutters, nodding.

"I know!" Riley agrees. "So suddenly I was a very wanted man. I went into hiding in Cuba for a year until the frenzy to find me died down, and then I came back to DC, and got a job with Mr. Hebrews. The rest is history."

After a tense five seconds of shocked silence, Abigail (being completely _not_ herself) bounces up and rushes over to him, pulling him into a bear hug. "Oh my god, Riley. I had no idea! And I always give you so much grief for everything!" She continues on in this manner, and all I can do is watch as he becomes more and more uncomfortable.

Eyes wide with panic, he mouths, "What is wrong with her?" Eventually Abigail senses his rigidity and backs off, flustered.

"Ben," Riley continues. "I still stand by what I said before. We shouldn't have met."

"What?" I thought we resolved this last night—or, to be technical, this morning.

"We shouldn't have met…because I should have refused to do what they wanted and died for the sake of my country instead of selling it out like that. What kind of person does what I did? Who knows how many people have been hurt or even died because of the information I leaked?" His hands begin to shake slightly as they try to grip the edges of the chair's back.

"Riley…" Abigail and Caroline are at a loss, so I guess I have to speak up. "You are not the only one who would have made that choice; it's a normal human reaction. I probably would have—"

"No you wouldn't." He's shaking his head and smiling—why is he smiling? "You're no 'normal' human in that respect. Ben, you have this…_eerie_…ability to offer yourself up for death without batting an eyelash—your view of how things are is so…so _idealistic_! You are convicted to what you know is right and never have to flip-flop on decisions or worry if you did the right thing and I envy you _so much_…because you can do that. You're not like everyone else."

Whoa—Abigail was right: he does talk about me like he thinks I can walk on water. And I thought that was an exaggeration. How come I've never noticed it before? Now my guilt for taking him for granted is skyrocketing—especially since now I know how much he's been hiding, been holding inside for so long. Everything in his eyes now, however, is screaming admiration beside the frustration with himself.

"Riley," I say. "I, too, still stand by what I said to you last night, despite whatever you may believe yourself." Thankfully, he understands what I'm talking about. "What's done is done, as much as I hate to say it. Now, we just have to fix it." Before he can stop himself, a lopsided grin flashes across his face.

In the distance, cutting across the pause, are some police sirens.

Sirens…

Wait a minute…

"Abigail? What time is it?"

"Um…" she says, looking down at her watch. "It's quarter 'til six."

Silence—then chaos explodes.

"We were supposed to be out of here fifteen minutes ago!" Caroline shouts out of panic, jumping up.

"We were?" Riley stares at us in alarmed confusion; apparently we forgot to tell him. As usual.

"Don't just sit there, Riley!" Abigail cries as she runs toward the door after Caroline, who has already grabbed her laptop and car keys.

Instantly he looks up at me; I've been standing here stupidly again, angry at myself for not filling him in. I told myself it would be a random-midyear resolution to be better about that. It's already broken…there must be something cursed about the word "resolution" because they always break. "Yeah, go get whatever you need and meet us in the car."

Hoping that he listened, I jog out to Caroline's minivan. It's just one thing after another, isn't it? We just cannot get a break, even when we succeed at breaking him out. Of course, it's not as if I didn't expect the FBI to immediately think of me; after all, they've got Sadusky on their side, and he'd automatically think of me whenever anything outrageously illegal happens. This would definitely fall under that broad category.

"Where are you…?" Caroline says to herself in a sing-song voice, tapping the steering wheel.

"Stop talking!" Riley calls as he stumbles into the car, arms overflowing with electronics and bottles of hair dye. "Start the van!"

"The van _is_ started," Caroline sighs, pointing to the engine. "In case you didn't notice…_men_…" Before can even slam the door, she steps on the gas and leaves gravel flying up into the air behind us. "Where are we going?"

"Head to Dulles Airport," I tell her. "We need to get out of the country."

"And fast," Riley adds with a look over his shoulder. If I'm not mistaken (and I hope I am), blue and red lights are reflecting off the trees around the corner.

As much as everyone is concerned, I still have to bite back a laugh at the severe déja-vu from Riley and Caroline's mini argument. I wonder if he's made the connection yet…

"Shouldn't we call and reserve tickets, Ben?" Abigail asks nervously. "Or at least check on a flight schedule? We can't just march in and demand four tickets on the first available overseas flight."

"Bubble burster," Riley mutters.

"_Thank_ you! See, Abigail?" I say. "Someone else thinks so too."

In silence we sit, the speedometer slowly approaching eighty miles per hour as we pass car after car in the dusk light. It's nice having a high-speed car chase that's not much of an actual chase.

But I think I spoke too soon.

Ahead of us is a herd of cop cars lined up on either side of the road. Caroline hits the brakes as we pass them and gets down to the speed limit. "No one knows I'm working with you, right, Ben?" she says timidly.

"Yeah, I even used a fake name with Mr. Hebrews. Don't worry." _DWEEOOO!_ Curse that infernal alarm sound! "OK, maybe now you should want to start worrying." One by one, each of the trooper cars starts up and begins to follow our path in a very fast and threatening manner.

"Oh my god—what do I do?"

"Just step on it!" Riley shouts, positioning himself in between the driver and passenger seats.

"Riley, this isn't your Ferrari! It's a ten-year-old minivan! There's only so much old Carlos can do!"

"Well, it's all we've got, so it's as good as!"

Thankfully, every other car in the left lane is clearing out, seeing as…well…probably fifteen sets of fluorescent light bars are after us. But none of this makes any sense—Caroline should not be linked to us _at all_.

"Riley," I say while pulling him into the back seat. "Put your seat belt on. If we crash, the last thing any of us wants is to see you being catapulted out the front windshield."

"Yeah, as I just fixed it a month ago," Caroline mutters. Ouch.

"What? Did you park under the 'beware of falling hickory nuts' sign again?"

"That happened _once_, thank you very much. And could you shut your face for like two-tenths of a second? I'm kind of busy." Right on cue, she revs the engine a little and pushes the needle past a hundred.

It's different being on a highway car chase—there's nowhere to run, much less hide, unless…unless there's an exit. Aha…a wonderful little green sign tells me that the Dulles Airport exit is quickly approaching. "Caroline, there's the exit we need," I say as I point ahead and to the right…across three lanes of traffic.

"I'm on it." Taking advantage of a temporary break in the multitude of vehicles, she slams the gas so hard I hear it thunk against the floor. We make it onto the exit ramp just in time; it sounds like the army of police cars just got themselves totaled. "Alrighty…alrighty…that wasn't too impossible…"

I lose track of her mutterings as Riley starts to rifle through the pile of stuff he brought. "Did you ever think to bring a bag?" I ask, though it goes ignored.

"Aha!" Triumphantly, he holds up what looks like an oversized walkie-talkie, complete with an eight-inch antenna, fifty different buttons and knobs, and a small screen. "Do you know what this is, Ben?" I shake my head. "It's a police scanner."

"Oh, geez, Riley!" Caroline sighs from the driver's seat as she looks at him via the rear-view mirror. "You're one of _those_ people?"

"_No_, I just collect electronics." Briefly, he glances at me before messing with the scanner's settings. "Let's see what's going on…"

The volume on the thing isn't very loud; he has to press it to his ear to hear what's being said over the static. And according to his expression, it must be very amusing.

"False alarm," he laughs. "Apparently they think this van is full of illegal drugs from Peru."

"_That's_ your idea of a false alarm?" Abigail says incredulously.

"They're not after us for breaking me out of prison, now are they? Unless…" He raises his eyebrows. "Unless Caroline's got something stashed up in that glove compartment."

"You're pushing your luck," she mutters, pulling into the parking lot.

"Well," he sighs as he follows me out of the van. "I'm just glad I still have some luck to push."

"C'mon," Abigail says. "We have to hurry."

She's right—we don't know how many officers would be chasing our van based on circumstantial evidence. We'll worry about that later; all that we need now are some tickets out of here.

Luckily, and most unusually, there are no long lines at the luggage check-in counters.

"Hi—oh dear, sir. Would you like a bag?" The friendly receptionist eyes Riley's towering pile of things in his arms warily.

"That'd be wonderful…" he says, teetering precariously. In no time, all of his belongings are dumped unceremoniously into a large plastic bag.

"Listen," I say. We don't have enough time to be wasting any of it. "We need tickets for the first available overseas flight."

She stares at me suspiciously before turning to her computer. "Let's see…the 5:50 to Berlin just left, and you already missed one to Abu Dhabi…does it matter where?"

"No, we're not really picky when it comes to where we go on vacation," Riley says with a smile.

"Uh-huh…well then." Her eyes snap back up at us without any of their former warmth. "There's one leaving for Rome in fifteen minutes. If you run—"

"Here." Slamming my hand down on the table, I present her with our entire stash of emergency money—a couple thousand dollars. "This enough?"

"Names? And don't give me any false ones, OK? You're still going to have to present your passports anyways." As she picks up the bills and begins to count them, her expression becomes more suspicious and slightly fed-up.

"Ben Gates, Abigail Chase, Riley Poole and Caroline Essex," Abigail rattles off, and soon the tickets are in her hands. Though she looks relieved, Riley is giving me that "dude, we're on the grid" look. "Thanks."

Wonderful—everyone seems to be so suspicious of us. Just what we need. At any rate, we begin to halfway jog over to security, which is also miraculously abandoned.

"What have you done now, Ben Gates?" the woman calls to our retreating backs. "And what treasure will you find to get yourself out of it this time?"

XXX

**Yay for knowing what happened to Riley! Boo sketchy airport people! (ahem) Anybody who's ever been to Dulles Airport knows it's a real miracle to find that place deserted. And I'm not knocking police scanner people—one of my friends is "one of them." Just thought I'd clear that up.**

**Just a bit of news on updates from this point forward: they're going to be much longer, I'm afraid. Before, I've been just typing them up since I was way ahead in the writing than the posting, but now they're equal. Once I finish writing chapter 10 and have enough time to get it up, it will be. Sorry! (sweatdrop)**

**Please review. It'll definitely help me move faster. **


	10. Chapter 10

Welcome to chapter 10! Yay chapter 10! (ahem…) Sorry about the wait, as I said before. I tried to get this out as fast as I could (and it's a bit longer than some of the other chapters, so…yeah.) Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: Need I clarify? If I have to write this one more time, the sheer concept of it might begin to actually depress me. **

Chapter 10 

I really hate plane rides—from take-off to the food they serve, I simply can't stand it. And once the flight gets in progress, all anyone can do is watch one of those in-flight movies; the engine's too loud for me to sleep, read, let alone think. At least most of the time. Now the only thing I'm capable of doing is thinking, with Abigail and Riley asleep and Caroline absorbed in a book, and information from the past day overloading my head.

After all these new revelations about this situation, you'd think that everything would be falling into place somewhat, but all it's done in my mind is raise more questions. More specifically, raise questions about the whole "running from the police" thing. It's probably just some weird coincidence about Caroline's van and the drug bust, but Abigail being able to get a ticket under Riley's "alias" and having the clerk say nothing about it? _That_ is fishy. If the FBI is seriously after him, wouldn't it make sense to throw out his alias to the public? Maybe they haven't gotten that far, but that doesn't sound like Sadusky. He's always a step ahead of everyone.

My body's really aching form sitting in one position for so long—both Abigail and Riley's heads have lolled onto each shoulder and readjusting myself in any way would jar them awake. And frankly, when either of them are woken up, they get cranky, and it can be kind of frightening. About and hour and a half passes like this, but suddenly Abigail turns away and Riley stirs all in the same five seconds.

"Morning…" he grunts, trying to stretch in the confined space. "We there yet?"

"You haven't even been out for two hours."

"Ugh," he sighs with frustration. "What are we supposed to do for the next five hours? Relish that nobody's currently chasing us?"

"I suppose."

"Well, what have _you_ been doing?"

"Acting as Abigail's and your pillow."

"I'll bet that makes the time fly," he chuckles as he unravels the earphones to his iPod. "I just remembered…I wasn't done listening to that new CD I had downloaded…" The screen flashes to life and a puzzled frown crosses his face. After clicking to start the song over, he listens intently for a little over a minute. Not that I'm timing him, but what else is there to do?

Pulling the buds from his ears, he holds the screen under my nose; it reads "Homesick at Space Camp," the song with the eerie applicable lyrics. "You listened to this, didn't you?" Playing on his lips is a small grin.

"Mm…yeah."

"Aw," he laughs. "Your smile's an 'open wound' without me, is it? How sweet!" _Thank_ you, Riley, for pointing out my emotional stress that that time. My thoughts must have manifested themselves a bit on my face since he quickly adds, smile never ceasing, "You know I'm kidding with you, right?"

"When _aren't_ you?" Almost instantly I regret the words; Riley's eyes fall momentarily before he seems to force a smile on his face.

"Yeah…true…" And in the earphones go, the volume so loud I can hear the song's lyrics clearly in my seat.

"_This is the end of a really sad story…don't feel bad for me. I started out alone and in the end, that's where I'll be—"_

"Hey," Caroline mutters suddenly. "Turn down your music. It's distracting."

The rest of the words are lost as the volume comes down to a more reasonable level. Honestly, I want to kick myself right now. Of course when I said that, I wasn't thinking of all those moments when he _was_ serious—but I know the few he's probably thinking of.

"_Ben, if it was you trying to convince me, you'd have less evidence and I'd already believe you by now."_

X

"_You're not like everyone else."_

X

If I just told him I pretty much never think he's being serious, then what did I just imply that those heartfelt statements mean to me?

XXX

"Dude…I need some coffee," Riley grumbles as he lugs his bag along the sidewalk. He's never been good with sleep deprivation, and the jet lag from the trip is taking a toll on his mood. We just _had_ to arrive at seven in the morning, didn't we? "Can't we just find a hotel already so we can sleep or drop our stuff off?"

"Don't you mean _your_ stuff?" Abigail says over her shoulder with a grin.

"Oh yeah—you guys packed light!" he says, falsely cheerful. "Or should I say…'nonexistantly'? Wait—" He stops in his place in front of a small coffee shop-bar establishment. "I'm going in here. You guys can go on, but I think I might collapse without a large dose of high-octane, caffeine-loaded yumminess."

As much as I would rather just find a hotel first, losing track of Riley is on the forefront of my mind on things _not_ to do, especially now that he's acting normal again. After my "I want to kick myself in the face" comment, he was very…not depressed, but a bit off. Thinking back to my record if such being a "not-so-good friend" comments, I wonder if he has reacted this way every time. If so, why haven't I ever noticed?

He opens the door and heads in, Caroline close behind and exhibiting that same need for a pick-me-up. I, too, step towards the shop but Abigail holds my wrist, stopping me in mid-step. "Is everything OK? You keep looking at Riley with guilt written all over your face."

"I may have…"

"May have what?"

"…may have had a slip-up and said something before I thought about it."

"Ben…" she sighs, full of exasperation. "This can't keep happening—we both need to get a lot better about this…especially now in our current situation. Why don't you go and apologize?"

"Hm?"

"Right," she says with a sarcastic bite that would rival Riley. "Perish the thought that Ben Gates would actually say he's sorry to his best friend."

"Hey…I did that one time under Trinity Church after I had yelled at him…" Unfortunately, any sort of defense starting with "that one time" isn't much of a defense. I could have more examples to make it more like…say "those fifty-three times." But I never really did think to let those two simple words out of my mouth.

"You don't have to yell at him to want to apologize. C'mon…they're starting to stare."

The coffee shop is abandoned except for us and a mustachioed bartender who is lazily wiping off a glass with a towel (as most bartenders tend to do). "I ordered double espressos for each of us," Riley says as we sit down. "They should do the trick."

"Only you're so immune to caffeine that it won't do you any good," Caroline mutters, her nose still in her book.

"Like you're any better! You have to have like…four Frappuchinos and a Caribou Coffee bar every day to keep from crashing."

Will their bickering never cease? Well…I guess not anytime soon since they're both probably still fresh from their confrontation and looking for any reason to claw out each other's throats. The stuff they argue about can be so petty that it's kind of amusing, but I can feel it starting to annoy big time—more than Abigail the night we stole the Declaration even.

"Excuse me?" the bartender says from behind the counter as the sounds from a coffee brewer echo off the shop's wood paneling. His voice was heavily accented. "You are Americans?"

"Yes sir," I reply.

"I saw CNN last night. They were talking of big things."

"Big things?" Abigail wonders aloud. "Like what?"

"No idea," he says, pulling the small TV along the bar so we can see it. "I did not know how to put the Italian words on the bottom until after, but I could tell. They were big things. You want to see if it is still on?" Before we can even nod, he turns the set on and then comes out from behind the counter with our coffee and pulls up a chair. I can only hope that these "big things" don't involve anything with Riley. If they are and it's still on this morning, we're royally screwed.

"—it is quite late, isn't it?" the reporter chuckles. "One in the morning…what are you doing at this hour?"

"Investigating, like always."

Yup, we're royally screwed—maybe even imperially screwed…or dictator-ly screwed. Why, Sadusky, must you be in CNN talking about the case?

"And for those few of you who are just joining us," the reporter continues. "I'm here with Peter Sadusky, who is heading the federal search for escaped prisoner Riley McLaughlin. Now tell me, Mr. Sadusky, how do you personally think McLaughlin escaped? Wasn't he a top-security prisoner?"

I'm just waiting for my picture to flash up on the screen—apparently everyone else is too. Abigail keeps throwing me nervous glances, Caroline finally put down her book, and Riley…Riley's not even looking at the screen. On the other hand, Mr. Bartender seems quite riveted by the subtitles.

"Honestly, my team and I are confounded as well. The measures we instructed his prison take…he couldn't have done it without outside help."

Now my blood's really running cold.

"Any ideas on who?"

Time seems to freeze—at that very instant, Caroline, Abigail, and Riley's eyes all snap towards me with a significant look, a look that says "we better get ready to start running." Monseigner the Bartender still doesn't notice, thank goodness.

"Nope," Sadusky says after a pause. "Not a clue."

I feel my mouth fall open despite itself in shock and watch as everyone else, including the bartender, follows suit.

"Just as a last word, so…y'know, people can help in the search…what sort of hiding places or disguises would McLaughlin be using?"

"He was living as a normal person before all this; all we had to do was go find him. And as for aliases…none come to mind." The screen turns black as the bartender clicks it off in disgust.

"I cannot believe it," he mutters. "Huge American criminal that has been…what is the phrase…'at large' for years and they don't even have any ideas. It is crazy!"

"Certainly is…" Caroline agrees with a sip of the espresso. "Certainly is."

If that little interview taught me anything, it's that Sadusky is a very accomplished liar. He's not stupid—that we all know. Every single question that reporter asked him had a very simple answer that was based on common sense and common knowledge. There has to be a reason for his withholding, but whether it be personal or mandated from higher up no one can be sure. The latter doesn't make any sense, though; the FBI _wants_ to catch Riley, so not disclosing information only hurts them. It has to be personal then—

"_It bothers me too, Ben."_

"Do you know where we could find a hotel?" I say suddenly.

"Uh…yes, there is one right down the street." The man begins to twirl his dark mustache. What an irritating habit—I'm glad Sadusky isn't prone to twirling.

Thankfully, Abigail has some euro to pay with (I knew there was something I was forgetting) and we head down to where the bartender directed us. The hotel is quite small and out-of-the-way, which is exactly what we need.

As soon as we enter our room, Caroline gasps and clutches her head. "Dammit!" she mutters, blinking hardly. "Dammit, dammit, dammit…." Frenzied, her hands fly across her pockets and into her laptop bag.

"What wrong?" Abigail asks as she closes the door.

"I'm getting a migraine and I don't have any painkillers."

"How badly do you need them?" I ask. Not that she can help it, but this is not thing best timing, seeing as we have no clue where the nearest pharmacy is.

"Pretty badly…if I don't get some now, I'll be almost blind within fifteen minutes, stay that way for an hour and then have to endure an agonizing headache for four hours…plus nausea…" In vain, she checks her pockets for again for what's probably the fifth or sixth time. "Ugh!" She collapses onto the couch, flinging a pillow over her eyes.

"Is there anything we can do?" Riley ventures.

"You should know better than anybody, Riley. I just need some silence, which is quite impossible when you're around, all right?"

"Fine then. I'm gone." With a confused glare he rotates on his heel and marches right back out the door. Talk about a grudge—I can understand _that_ part, but how they react towards each other is another story. Heck, it's another _volume_.

"You guys don't have to stay, you know," she says, still under the pillow. "I'll be fine."

"Um…you sure?" Abigail seems concerned for her, but conflicted as well regarding Riley.

"Yeah, positive. If something bad comes up, I've got your cell numbers."

I expected him to be further away, but when we step out of the room, Riley's just outside, staring at the strange design on the carpet and tracing his foot along the swirls. I've never seen him so preoccupied with something that couldn't be plugged in or isn't a colorful ancient statue of some random man.

"_It's a little golden man!"_

"So," I say, but he doesn't look up. "You're the newly freed man. Where to?" Still nothing—I highly doubt the carpet is _that _interesting. "C'mon, Riley. We're in Rome and nobody knows we're here. Might as well go do something."

Instantly his head pops up and he looks around contemplatively at no one in particular. "Rome. The Pope lives here."

"What…are you feeling Catholic all of a sudden?" Abigail chuckles.

"No, it's not that…is he currently in Rome?"

"The last I heard, he was visiting Mexico," I say.

"Alrighty then!" OK…talk about mood swings—or caffeine kicking in. Now he's all smiles and springy steps. "Follow me!" Abigail and I both have a _bad_ feeling about this; she's giving me these slightly scared looks every so often.

After getting lost twice and asking a confused old Italian woman with an armful of lettuce for directions, we pass St. Peter's Cathedral and stand directly before the Palace of the Vatican.

"D'you think the Swiss Guard people'll be swarming around if the Pope's not even here?" he wonders aloud.

"Probably not _swarming_…" Abigail says.

And then it hits me like a ton of lead bricks.

"…_we've broken into Buckingham Palace and kidnapped the President of the United States. What are we going to do next? Short-sheet the Pope?"_

"Riley, you can't be serious," I mutter.

"Serious about what? What's he talking about, Riley?"

"Nothing, Abigail. Nothing," he says, waving away her concern as he steps up to the security pad by the door. Just as he did at our house before the whole Cibola incident, the entire system is disarmed in under thirty seconds. "I keep telling people to get a dog…"

My God, we are going to get so frickin' caught. Nobody—not even us—can just casually waltz into the Pope's place of residence. It shouldn't be this easy, it really shouldn't. Just for good measure, I pick up a vase of flowers. Hey, it worked at Buckingham Palace, didn't it?

"Riley, please tell me why we're doing this," Abigail whispers frantically.

"Nah-ah-ah!" He smiles as he rounds the corner. "Your questions will soon answer themselves!" How he knows his way around this place is beyond me, but somehow we've managed to get all the way to the Pope's bedchambers. "You two wait here." And he promptly closes the door in our faces.

"Ben, what is he doing?"

"Think—what _would_ he be doing in there?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. That's why I'm asking."

"Abigail, just think about it." Turns out she really doesn't have any sort of inkling whatsoever, especially since she's still thinking when Riley opens the door, a broad grin splashed across his face.

"Well?" she says impatiently.

"Well _indeed!_" He takes a dramatic pause, throwing the door open and motioning towards the immaculate bed. "You, my friends, are witnesses of the first-ever Papal short-sheeting!"

After a brief silence, Abigail says, "You're serious?"

"Absolutely."

Stunned (I less than Abigail since I was expecting it), we wander up to the bed to inspect it. No one would ever guess what's been done; there's no trace…except… "You left a mint on the pillow." There was more disbelief (_amused_ disbelief, I might add) in that than I originally intended.

"Yup," he says, putting one arm around each of our shoulders and leading us out. "It's all about the presentation." Suddenly he stops, right outside the bedroom door, and swivels around to look at us. His abundant cheerfulness—so unlike himself normally—is kind of, in an odd way, starting to worry me. "Geez. I love you guys!" In yet another un-Rileyistic move, he swoops down upon each of us and pecks us both on each cheek.

"Riley…" I say slowly. "What was that?"

"It's a standard European greeting! Everybody does that to everybody, Ben! And well…y'know…when in Rome!"

"Technically…" Abigail says. "We're in Vatican City."

"Psh…" he scoffs. "Still Rome."

"Isn't it its own country, though?" I add, and just to annoy him.

"_Still…Rome…_" he says again, starting to head back down to the exit, us close behind.

"That is true, Ben," Abigail continues with an amused grin. "Vatican City's actually considered to be the world's smallest independent nation!"

"STILL ROME!"

XXX

"Riley Poole—or…whoever you are…you've got some major 'splainin to do." We haven't even been in our room for half a second before Caroline drags Riley in by the arm.

"And you're not lying down on the couch in agony because…?"

"The receptionist had some Motrin, thank God. But stop avoiding the question, Riley. Look!" Somewhat apprehensively Abigail and I follow them over to the room's television, which is blaring CNN.

"Just minutes ago, officials at the Palace of the Vatican have reported the His Holiness the Pope's bed has been…short-sheeted. The discovery was made upon the Pope's return half an hour earlier. However, the Swiss Guard is more concerned with what looks like a mint that had been placed on the pillow, and they are currently having it tested for poison. The perpetrator is unknown, but the FBI has said that they have reason to believe escaped prisoner Riley McLaughlin may be in Rome at this time—"

"Well?" Caroline says, muting the TV. "You happy? Or was that someone else?"

"It was me…" Literally, he collapses onto the bed nearby and runs his hand across his brow. I can't it was the brightest idea, but seeing him happy and bubbly like that…ii didn't want to be a bubble burster and take that from him.

"The FBI's not going to let up anytime soon, are they?" Abigail sighs with a quick glance at me.

"The only way they'll do that is if I fake my death or something," Riley mutters darkly.

"That can be arranged." Smiling, Caroline looks over at him.

"Y'know, I said _'fake'_ my death."

"Oh. Nevermind then."

Holy Lord, those two need counseling.

"Or…" I say; the idea struck me quite suddenly, as is their custom. "Or we could go directly to the source of this whole problem. We're going to confront them."

"Wait—" Caroline holds up her hands. "Who?"

"Noob," Riley chuckles. "If you had waited another five seconds, Ben would have clarified himself."

"Does he do this often?"

_Again_ with my declaration patterning—out of the corner of my eye, I see Abigail mouthing "Oh yeah, _all_ the time," to Caroline…until she sees that I'm looking at her. Then she's all cheesy smiles.

"Well…" I sigh. "What I was _going _to say was that we should go confront that terrorist organization."

Abigail's eyebrows fly up in surprise, but the other two just stare. "Ben," Riley starts. "I don't even know what country they're based out of."

"We can go to your university in Saudi Arabia and go from there. Sound like a plan?" Well…I guess it does since they're not saying otherwise. "Abigail, call the airport. We need tickets on the first flight to Riyadh."

XXX

**Woo! So…that whole "short-sheet the Pope" side-trip was going to be its own little oneshot, but I thought it would work perfectly here for some reason. And, just as a random note, I now know why Abigail's from Saxony. It's 'cause Diane Kruger was born in Saxony. Now it all makes sense. Yay!**

**Thanks for cooperating with my slower updates. **

**Please review—I'm open for suggestions on anything. Seriously. I want to hear from you! It'll make my day a whole lot better…I too had a migraine this afternoon. (boo) **


	11. Chapter 11

Quicker update for you awesome peoples! Woo! OK: I forgot to mention this last chapter, but the song Riley listens to in the beginning is "Sad Story" by Plain White T's. I don't want to be sued.

**Yes, this starts out silly. A bit too silly. But you'll just have to deal, OK? (Kidding.) And for all intents and purposes, this is later the same day. 'Cause Abigail is a beast at getting tickets. **

**Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. It's a sad, sad world.**

Chapter 11 

More uncomfortable seats, more turbulence, more nauseating food, more head-splitting noise—it's really turning out to be a perfect day, isn't it? Although this flight may be shorter, it definitely feels longer: everyone, including Abigail even (who is _never_ idle), is staring off into space with a metaphorical bit of drool swinging from their mouths. Caroline finished her book long ago, and Riley has finally given up on a newspaper cipher puzzle once he realized (after about two hours) that it's in Italian. It's just been _that_ kind of day.

And I don't think Riley is going to let that puzzle win. Defiantly he glares for at least ten minutes until he eventually whips out a black Sharpie from his hoodie pocket, muttering, "You know what, Mr. Cipher? You know _what_?", and scrawls something across the entire box. "_That's_ my answer."

I kind of doubt that it's correct. "Um…?"

"Yes. My answer is 'rigatoni.'"

"Why not 'lasagna'?" Abigail asks conversationally from across the aisle.

"_Because_ Abigail, I detest lasagna with a passion that burns inside me with the strength of a thousand giant, red-hot suns. On the other hand, rigatoni is delicious."

"Right," Caroline mutters beside her. "That makes all the sense in the world."

Enough arguing over Italian cuisine. We can do that later…maybe…hopefully not. There really shouldn't be this much in that department to argue over. "Well!" I say in a desperate attempt to change the subject. "Has anybody given any thought to how we're going to find the people we're looking for after we get to Riyadh?"

"Mm…" Riley sighs. "My roommate Talal's probably still there, and he was doing something in police or criminal law. He could be helpful…except…"

"How do you get him to help without revealing yourself?" I finish, nodding.

"And Talal is like the Saudi version of you, Ben," he continues. "Only in a Sadusky suit. Nothing—and I mean _nothing_—gets past him."

"So he's in a Saudi Sadusky suit?" Caroline chuckles across the aisle. "_That's _fun to say. Just try it—Saudi Sadusky suit!"

"It's kind of like saying…" he says pensively, stroking his chin. "Puffin muffin. Try saying _that_ with a straight face."

Wow. So much for trying to steer the subject in a more productive direction. In the past five minutes, we're gone from, what, Italian pasta preferences to being productive for about…half a second and now they're off on alliteration and rhyming. _How_ did that happen? I'm more lost than Abigail at an electronics store, as Riley would put it (trust me—that's saying something).

That's it. No more double espressos.

"Puffin muffin bubble trouble Saudi Sadusky—"

Ever.

XXX

The edifice is imposing—an austere gray building rising up above the crowded streets, shining plaques adorning the space beside the door with words that I would normally never suspect to be words. The entire building seems to be glaring down upon us, and Riley's glaring right back with a determined hardness that would probably rival mine in the most extreme cases.

"Are…are you sure you want to do this, Riley?" Caroline asks from behind him. For the first time since his rescue, the slightest bit of concern clouds her face.

"I have to."

"Why? _Why_ do you have to?"

"I'm not going to live in hiding for the rest of my life like a coward. This whole thing's gone on unresolved for too long."

I'm amazed by the conviction in his voice; the emotional turmoil he must be going through…I don't even think it can be classified in the same league with the doubt Dad and I felt about Thomas Gates last year. This goes way beyond.

"We're coming with you," I say.

"You're not going to understand a word I'm saying. I can do this alone."

"But you don't have to." Slowly, he turns his head and gazes up at me, puzzled. "We're going with you."

"Don't even try to protest," Abigail says quickly as he opens his mouth.

"Fine." He takes a step and starts up the large gray stairs leading up to the heavy door, pausing ever so slightly before heaving it open.

While Riley speaks with the guard in the front lobby, I realize he had a point: a long stream of what my ears are registering as gibberish is issuing from his mouth, accompanied by some small hand gestures, like a point down the hallway. Maybe he's trying to convince the guard to let us through, but don't go by me. I don't speak Arabic.

"C'mon," he says after a minute or so of conversing, tilting his head down the hall and leading us toward an elevator. "I think he said fourth floor…" His eyes scan the buttons and finally settle on one. "There."

"_That_ means 'four'?" Caroline says with a motion toward the button.

"Yup."

"It doesn't look like a four."

"_You _don't look like a four."

"Well…I, unlike that button, am not purporting to be any sort of numeral. There's a difference."

The two of them exit first, halfway shoving past each other, just when Abigail shoots me a look implying how grateful she is we didn't have to stay in that small confined space for much longer. I agree—it would have been quite difficult to remain uninjured when a fight finally broke out.

They aren't too far down the hall. "Here's Talal's office."

Instinctively, we all look up at the plaque on the door and quietly sigh in confusion—again. "We'll take your word for it," I tell him.

After a sharp knock, he leads us into his old roommate's office. Talal, leaning forward on his elbows, is sitting behind a large oak desk, his fingers entwined with the first fingers crossing his lips and his thumbs under his chin. As we enter, his dark eyes survey us and his Arab-toned visage contorts subtly, probably analyzing our every move. The man is no larger than Riley but carries an aura of imposing power.

I wish I could understand what they're saying—I know at least that Riley's trying to get information from him without revealing his true identity, but from the direction the tone of their conversation is going, I think Riley's fighting a losing battle. Little by little their voices have risen until now when they've both jumped from their seats and are practically shouting at each other, Riley more so out of desperation. Talal seems enraged.

"I am so confused," Caroline breaths to my left.

"Sir," Talal says suddenly in English. "I will say this in your native tongue for the benefit of your comrades. I do _not _wish to talk about Riley McLaughlin any longer!"

"But—"

"The mere memory of what he did sickens me! There is no other side to his awful story, do you understand?"

"Sir, there was an entire six months between his disappearance in Riyadh and when he resurfaced in the States. There _has_ to be another side!"

Six months? Riley was in terrorist custody for six _months_? That's certainly a little detail he skimmed over; from the way he told us, it sounded more like six days. From either side of me, I hear Abigail and Caroline gasp quietly.

"Why then? Why do the six months matter?"

"If he had really wanted to hack into those databases, he could have done so from the university."

"So what are you saying?"

"What if McLaughlin was an unwilling pawn?"

"Stranger…" Talal says slowly. "You confuse me. Why do you care so much?"

At this, Riley has no response ready—definitely a first in my book. He leans, palms down on the desk, and tries to steady his breathing.

"Why do you care so much?" Talal repeats.

"I just want to know what happened to me!"

Instant silence—the Arab's eyes grow wide with many things, but mostly confusion and skepticism. Riley's pair of bright blue glaze over in shock.

"…to him," he corrects. "…what happened to _him_…"

"Riley…" Talal sighs. "Sit down." After Riley falls into his seat, Talal turns his attention to us in the back. "Would you three like some chairs?"

"W-we're fine," Abigail says after an awkward pause.

His attentive gaze sweeps across each of our faces and I nod once, then saying cautiously, "What terrorist groups would have been after someone with Riley's skills?"

"Terrorist?" Talal repeats. "Is that what happened?"

Grimacing, Riley nods. "Yes…" The rest of his comment is in Arabic, and he tosses in a lopsided grin toward the end, Talal nodding in agreement. After all this, after his arrest and everything that's come along with it, the one single thing that's made it real is listening to him speak so fluently in this foreign language. Sure, he told us he could and told us all that had occurred, but it hasn't seemed real. This entire ordeal has been like a nightmare, and it's only now that I'm realizing I won't be waking up.

With a more drawn-out sigh, Talal collapses into his seat on the other side of the desk. "I had always wondered what had happened. Can you imagine going to sleep one night and then waking up to find your friend gone without a trace? No one had known or seen a thing—Karina even tried to organize a full search…but…the only things that could give us any clues were your missing computer and the blood spot on the carpet."

As he finishes, Riley's hand absently runs across a spot on the back of his head. "I had no idea who took me, but now I want…I _need_ to know."

The Arab turns to his computer and begins typing away, muttering to himself. "To answer your question…Mr.…?" He glances up at me.

"Gates. Ben Gates."

"Well, to answer your question, Mr. Gates, of all the known cells in the surrounding countries, only two or three have ever expressed a need for computers, and just one has ever explicitly needed a hacker. They're in Damascus, Syria's capital."

"Damascus is a large city, sir," Abigail ventures. "How are we supposed to find a secret terrorist cell in a city of that size?"

"Glad you asked, ma'am," he says with a triumphant grin. "Our agency recently smoked them out of their lair and into the basement of an abandoned building. We can lead you straight there. But…" His gaze focuses back on Riley. "Are you sure you want to do this? These people are very dangerous."

"I know what we're dealing with."

Briefly his eyes harden into a glare directed towards no one in particular and glaze over, as if the office and all of us have disappeared, only to be replaced by shadows of a grim and horrible past. I feel my blood come dangerously close to a boiling point—these people are going to rue the day they messed with Riley. I'll see to that.

"Do you need me to reserve you all some tickets?" Talal asks, but I shake my head. "Before you leave…I have just one question."

"What?"

"Just how were you able to walk in here without getting arrested?" His eyes lock on Riley in the center.

"I'll be honest," he sighs, a confounded overtone in his expression. "I have no clue."

"The FBI hasn't released his alias," I clarify. "…just another question."

"'Cause nothing can ever be simple," Caroline adds.

"And nothing can ever be unambiguous," Abigail sighs.

"Um…" Riley looks at each of us with an amused and slightly confused grin. "What they said."

"Right." Talal rips out a sheet off his legal pad and whips out a pen. "Now, we've had more than one dealing with this group, so I'm going to give you some advice. Once you're in Damascus, here's what you do…"

XXX

They surely like to move around a lot, don't they? And, just to clarify, I am completely making everything up that has to do with the terrorists.

**Anybody know any other Middle-Eastern male names? I know a grand total of three, and I've already used one here and the other two in the next chapter. I'm kind of running low. **

**Please review you wonderful people who have gotten this far! Reviews make everyone smile! (even Freddy, the disclaimer smiley.) **


	12. Chapter 12

Yay chapter 12! So…"you know you're a National Treasure fan when…" you write your argumentative English essay on Ben and Riley's friendship and then overstep the word limit so badly your teacher freaks, even when you tell her you cut out half of what you were going to say.

PS – Thanks to all who supplied the names! They will surely come in handy.

**Disclaimer: DISCLAIMED! (That took a lot, mind you.)**

_**Chapter 12**_

So much for Talal's counsel; he told us we should sneak in around the side of the warehouse, be stealth-like, milk the element of surprise for all its worth. But no—we're going straight up to the front door and barging in. I'm no expert, but barging in on terrorists just doesn't sound all that bright. I tried getting this point across to Riley—didn't exactly work. His gaze never wavering in determination, he shook his head and sprouted off something about "needing to show that he has the courage to confront them head on." But…come on…even I know there's a difference between courage and bravado.

"Riley," Caroline says forcefully. "I would _really_ feel a lot more comfortable if we stuck to your friend's plan."

"You don't have to come then."

"We're not letting you in there all by yourself."

"I got away once."

"You got lucky. They have no reason to keep you alive now that they have what they were after."

The point must have struck Riley hard—he turns his head to meet her concerned gaze, which looks like it throws him off a bit. "I'll take my chances. Ben?"

"…yeah?"

"If something happens, leave me and get everyone else out."

"But—"

"I know it'll be hard for you. If I had my way, you all wouldn't even be here with me. They can do whatever they want to me, but if they so much as _look_ at any of you the wrong way…" Bristling, he can't even finish his sentence.

He makes me promise, but it's a very precarious agreement: if something indeed does occur, I don't know if I could run and save myself. In fact, I'm sure I won't be able to. Now I'm just hoping I won't be faced with that decision.

Defiantly, he tosses the creaky door open and steps inside, Caroline, Abigail, and I not too far behind. Abigail squeezes my hand quickly, fear hidden just beneath the surface.

Turns out this may not have been a warehouse at all. In its glory days, this building was probably very impressive, but now the wall's paint is peeling, the tile floors are cracked, and a significant draft whistles through the long, pillar-lined corridor we find ourselves in. The dim lighting reminds me of a set of an old horror movie.

We don't move, just stare—I can't tell whether the shifting shadows behind the pillars are products of the inconsistent light streaming in from the holes in the roof or of hidden people. Every breath we take seems to be too loud, feeling like we're giving our position away.

All of a sudden, a man leaps from the darkness and right in front of us, shouting in rapid Arabic. We all jumped, except Riley.

Knife pointing straight at us, the man yells a string of words in our direction with a piercing glare. Through all this, even though Abigail, Caroline and I are basically shrinking back from sheer intimidation, Riley has not budged and a sound has not escaped his lips. He replies confidently, and if I'm not mistaken, the words "Riley McLaughlin" were tucked away in there somehow.

Slowly, the man smiles a fiendish grin, speaking with a slight chuckle as he tries to circle around Riley. God, I hate not knowing what's going on—how can I anticipate what this stranger's going to do if I can't understand a word he's saying?

Riley makes a sharp sidestep right into the path of the man, who seemed to have been heading towards the rest of us; a forceful statement is shot at the stranger. All they do is stare for a moment, and then the man tries to get around him again—this time, he's met with an angry shove.

"Did you not hear me the first time, Yasser? Leave them out of this!"

"They have wandered into our midst," Yasser says with a heavy accent. "They will have a difficult time staying neutral."

"Don't touch them."

Yasser directs his gaze beyond Riley, at us, and I can tell he's fighting the urge to smirk. On second thought, they can go on talking in Arabic; what they're saying is not exactly all that comforting.

"_So_, Mr. McLaughlin…" he says simply. "What brings you to scenic Damascus?"

"I have some unresolved issues that need settling with Ahmed."

Pacing slowly, Yasser dramatically contorts his face into a bewildered expression. "Ahmed? Why would you need to speak to Ahmed?"

His eyes ablaze with seething anger, Riley rushes up to the man, yanking up his right shirt sleeve. "You may have a short memory, but I don't forget." He holds up his exposed arm, and all three of us gasp in shock.

Snaked up his forearm are innumerable white scars made ghastly not only by their sheer quantity, but their sizes: one running up the top part of his arm from his hand must be almost an inch in width. The entire limb seems to be made of scar tissue, and where normal skin runs out, scars lay on top of scars, creating a contoured mountain of nightmarish memories.

"No wonder I could never get him to wear short sleeves," Caroline whispers to herself.

"I don't forget," he repeats a bit softer as he rolls his sleeve back down.

The next second is a blur, because the next things I know are two forces pulling back on my arms—Abigail and Caroline are restraining me with anxious looks. I don't figure out why I'm being held back until I focus my vision on what's in front of me.

Yasser has taken Riley and is holding him with his deadly blade held close to his throat. His head angled up towards the vaulted ceiling, a defiant glare is still present on Riley's visage. The only sign that his composure is taking a beating is the slight increase in the heaviness of his breathing.

"What is it exactly that you need from Ahmed? He's not one to grant audiences lightly," Yasser hisses.

"That's between him and myself."

"Nothing in our clan is private. Tell me!"

"No."

He presses the knife a bit harder onto Riley's neck until a minuscule stream of crimson flows down toward the collar of his t-shirt. Still no sound is uttered—only deeper breaths through gritted teeth. Again I feel the forces on my arms; why can't they let me go? Can't they see that this sadistic demon is going to kill him?

"Ben, you're not helping," Abigail murmurs.

"If you'd let me go, then maybe I could," I whisper back.

"This guy wants to see us suffer as well. You're playing right into his hands!" Seeing the truth in her words, I relax just enough so they don't feel compelled to hold me back. The pressure of Yasser's dagger lightens and allows me an internal sigh of relief, but it had to be brief.

The terrorist yanks Riley away from his chest and holds him by the hair before him. "Fine, you arrogant little twit." 'Twit'? This guy must have learned English from a Roald Dahl novel. "I'll see if Ahmed will see you. But first—" In a flash, Yasser snatches a water canteen from his belt and pours its sky-blue contents over Riley's head. The black seems to literally melt away to orange as the dye is stripped from his hair, cascading onto his face and into his eyes, which snap shut in pain. "He needs to be able to recognize you." With an indifferent glare, he roughly throws him to the ground and walks off toward a back door.

Bastard.

"Ben, my eyes," he says from his unmoved position on the dusty floor. "Ben, they sting so badly…"

"Sit up." I pull him into a sitting position. His entire face is charcoal gray from the bleeding dye and his eyes are cemented so tightly that they're twitching. They must be stinging horribly since he has started to almost whimper. "Here," I say, giving his glasses to Caroline. "Abigail? Do you have some water?" Biting her lip, she hands me the bottled water from her pocket. "Riley, you have to let me open your eyes."

"They hurt—"

"I know…I know…this will make them feel better." I have to employ a ridiculous amount of energy to pry his eyelids apart and an even bigger amount to keep them that way after the shock of seeing his eyeballs—the dye has tinted parts of the eyes' whites a pepper gray. No wonder he's in so much agony…so much undeserved physical and mental agony. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time all those years ago—how much more suffering must he endure as punishment for a moment's worth of bad luck?

The water flows over his brow as the dye is completely removed from his face. After about five minutes, he can stand to keep his eyes open even though they still hold a faint mark or two of gray. "I look ridiculous, don't I?" he chuckles solemnly, running a hand through his splotched orange and black hair. "Thanks," he sighs. His fingers trying to furtively halt the bleeding on his neck, he clambers to his feet rather nonchalantly. I'm sorry, but how do you get jostled and threatened by a terrorist and walk away as casually as you would from any other activity?

"It's fine," he says, noting our bewildered expressions. "Yasser's a coward; he would never do anything extreme."

"You mean _that_ wasn't extreme?" Abigail exclaims. "If he had pressed any harder with that knife of his, you'd be dead—_dead_, Riley! I fail to see how that is not extreme."

One thing I've noticed since we've been here is that Caroline has been unusually quiet. Hanging back, her gaze towards Riley has been anything but consistent and I can't place any of the emotions—they change so quickly. I'm going to play it safe and say she's conflicted.

"Extreme, Abigail?" he says. "That was nothing. Extreme is when they slice your arm to pieces. Extreme is when they whack you over the head and drug you so they can spirit you away in the dead of night. Extreme is when they beat you within an inch of your life so that you're begging for them to finish the job but instead they leave you to bleed. What he just did was a warm-up, Abigail, and that is why every second I regret involving you all in this mess."

Warm-up?

Drugged?

Begging for death?

What else have you been through that you're not telling us? What more are you hiding? What more can your soul possibly bear?

"Ben?" he says cautiously; I must look stupid, standing here with my blank, shocked, expression and all.

"Has anybody got a bazooka? I have some sons of bitches to annihilate."

"Yeah," he replies. "I'll just get the collapsible one I keep in my back pocket." Amazingly enough, he cracks a smile, a couple fingers still plugging the wound on his neck.

"I'm sorry," I choke out, my voice cracking for the first time since middle school. "I'm so sorry."

He opens his mouth to respond but it is cut short by the slamming of a door. "Ahmed does indeed desire to see you," Yasser calls with an ominous menacing overtone. "He said it'd be just like old times."

Instinctively, one of Riley's hands twitches, clenching even harder into a fist. No doubt there are multiple meanings of Yasser's words.

The door he leads us down also carries an air of neglect: wallpaper curls toward the floor and cobwebs line the corners of the descending spiral stairwell. While Yasser's back is turned, a bit of Riley's nerve evaporates and he bites his bottom lip. I place my hand on his shoulder. "It'll be all right," I mouth, but his expression screams uncertainty.

Eventually we come to a classroom-sized chamber lit by old flickering fluorescent lights with multiple doors dotting the edges. It is full to the brim with even more members of this deadly gang, each armed with a variety of scary weaponry. If I didn't know any better, I would say they had been waiting for the last person to show up at a party by their lazy grins. Most of them are sitting along the walls; about five, even more heavily armed, are standing in the back, surrounding an ornamental chair. And this chair is by no means empty.

"So nice of you to join us, Mr. McLaughlin," Ahmed grins from his seat. "Wonderful to have to back."

Pushed to the center, Riley merely glares at him. The other members soon begin to chuckle mockingly, elbowing each other.

"What?" Ahmed continues, faking hurt. "Can you not say the same?" By the end, he too is laughing along; after a few seconds, he waves his arm and silence falls instantly. "Why have you returned, McLaughlin? Your business is through here."

"Not quite," he says through gritted teeth.

"Right," says a lanky man to Ahmed's left. "We forgot to kill you."

"Enough, Ali," Ahmed sighs. "What loose ends have we forgotten? Enlighten us."

"What information did I steal for you?"

"Is that it?" he says, seemingly confused, as he readjusts himself in the chair. "I was expecting something more…more…well, just something more. Is that really all?"

Hesitant, Riley nods. "That's all."

"Well, I see no harm in telling you." Wow. This is actually going our way—surprisingly. "Riley—may I call you Riley?—the CIA had information of a treasure, a treasure beyond all imagining—"

"Been there, done that," he mutters in a bored tone before he can catch himself. My sentiments exactly, but you really should have kept your mouth shut, Riley. Especially now since there are quite a few guns being pointed at Abigail, Caroline and I.

"Hold you tongue," Ali spits slowly. "Or your comrades will pay dearly."

With a panicked expression, Riley hastily throws a whispered "Sorry!" over his shoulder.

"_Anyways_," Ahmed says, voice laced with annoyed impatience. "Rumor had it that this treasure holds something that we have a great need of and that your CIA knew all about it. So we came and got you."

"So…" Riley says. "Where is this amazing treasure?"

"Somewhere in Thailand, but we are lacking further information." Smirking, Ahmed stretches back in his chair. "Well, now that that's settled, we can tie up that other loose end."

"Which is…"

"Killing you. And your friends. We can't have you knowing this valuable information, now can we?"

The temperature in the room seems to plummet twenty degrees, yet the fire in the terrorists' eyes seems to burn hotter. Beside me, Caroline lets out a small squeal and Abigail grasps my arm. "Is there a plan?" she breathes. I wish I could tell her yes.

"Ben…" Riley says, now facing us and speaking with a warning tone. Briefly, the image of him in his parka, hiding behind a couple ropes on the Charlotte flashes before me. "You swore."

"No, Riley…I had my fingers crossed—"

"You did not. _Run_." Although his voice is forceful, his eyes shimmer with melancholy as Yasser, Ali, and their other cronies approach threateningly behind him.

Suddenly I feel myself being pulled back—no matter how hard my legs and feet try to pull me forward, it's no use. Knives fly and guns explode as we reach the stairwell, and his body flops like a rag doll, scarlet splattering across the walls, my silent screams caught in my throat as they disappear from view—

"Ben!"

My screams cut loose abruptly, ceasing when my eyes see that it is suddenly pitch black. Have I gone blind? Where am I? Where's Riley? So many numerous and incoherent thoughts are coursing through my mind as my chest heaves like I had just ran a marathon. As light floods the familiar room, I sit up and wipe my forehead, my hand coming away sticky.

"Ben…" Abigail flings her arms around my neck as she collapses onto our bed, holding me close as tears fear and relief begin to sting my eyes. "It's OK," she whispers, her voice shaking a bit. "We're home…everyone's alive…we got away from Ahmed…they can't hurt us anymore…"

XXX

**Heh. Scared you, didn't I? Terribly sorry…**

**The next update might not be for a while, but I will try to get it up as fast as I can. And more questions will be answered…maybe more questions will surface…hm…who knows? **

**Please review. (Seriously. Reviews are love.)**


	13. Chapter 13

**Again: sorry for giving you all a mini-heart attack or making the ending anticlimactic…or whatever happened to make you upset. I'm trying to do something with the dreams am a little conflicted on what to do so I, being the obsessive person I am, am going to talk to my English teacher about it and hope she's seen enough of NT to know what the heck I'm talking about. I SWEAR I wasn't just being lazy. Seriously.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it. Seriously, you'd think they'd get it after the 13****th**** time. But no. And also, as I tend to allude to a lot of other copyrighted things, I don't own any of those things either. If I did, I'd be very wealthy, and seeing as I have a grand total of forty-nine cents to my name right now, that can't be the case at all, now can it? **

**Wow. I'm ramble-y today.**

Chapter Thirteen 

Hours pass—Abigail fell back asleep long ago, and I've been sitting up, staring wide-eyed in the darkness and trying to calm my breathing to a reasonable level. I think I woke up (for lack of a better term) around three-thirty-ish; through the curtains I see the first glimpse of sunlight, meaning I've been sitting here for at least three hours. Three hours of replaying our escape in my mind, just to convince myself it really happened—

"_You did not. _Run,_" Riley said, but I wasn't about to leave him. I had time—Yasser, Ali, and everyone else were taking their sweet time. I guess they thought that we would be too scared to move, frozen to the spot._

"_Ben, I hope you have a plan," Caroline muttered in a panicked high-pitched squeak._

"_Well," I said, casually pulling off one of my clunky shoes. "I'm not leaving anybody behind, so you all better remember this as the day that Ben Gates lied." I had to move more quickly now, seeing as they were assembling their various weapons with rapidly increasing speeds. "Think fast!" With a casual yet forceful toss, I lobbed my shoe into the mass of terrorists and then grabbed Riley's wrist without even a glance back. "Come on…we have to get out of here."_

_While they were recovering from my surprise…attack (if you could even call it that), Caroline and Abigail joined us in dashing up the stairs; below us, a sudden flow of angry shouts reverberated up the winding, dizzying corridor._

"_Riley, what are they saying?" Caroline called from the front._

"_Um…run faster!"_

"…_really?" Abigail gave him a funny look._

"_Mm…no, but they said Ben's shoe broke Ali's nose, so we really _should_ be running faster."_

_Wonderful point—upon reaching the pillar-lined hall, we flat-out sprinted to the door, falling over each other to get into the street. Nearby was a crowded main road, and all we had to do was run like mad to the US Embassy, as long as Riley kept his hood up and his mouth closed._

That was a week ago. Things turned out fine—so why did I have a nightmare featuring that atrocious alternate ending? My thoughts are interrupted as Abigail stirs.

"Hey…" she murmurs, eyes half open. "Have you been awake all this time?"

"Maybe."

"Ben, go to bed. When Riley wakes up, I will personally send him in here so you can see for yourself that he's perfectly fine."

"Promise?" I whisper, settling down next to her.

"Promise."

XXX

Everything is so peaceful, so warm, so comfortable—when suddenly I get hit with _something_ and its cold mushy contents erupt all over my face.

"Oh—geez!" I hear Riley say from the door. "Sorry, Ben, sorry! I just meant to toss the Jello cup at you to wake you up! I didn't know that it would explode!"

"Gah…" I grunt as I sit up, red blobs of gelatin tumbling off me and bouncing across the bedspread. "Why would you throw a thing of Jello at me to wake me up?" It really makes no sense, even in Riley's normal "outside the box" thinking.

"Well…" he sighs, shrugging and coming to sit facing me on the foot of the bed. "I figured you'd want some breakfast. And let's face it, Jello is a superb midmorning treat." Nodding, he gives me this "it's _so_ obvious" look and then just stares, his eyes shifting around awkwardly.

"So you _threw _it at me and then it exploded."

"Don't blame me for the incompetence of the packaging. It was some new, weird, generic brand…and is probably full of lead paint."

"So…what?" I say. "You want to be a pitcher for the Red Sox or something? Even with the bad packaging, you had to have thrown that Jello really hard for it to burst like that."

"Psh! Red Sox?" he laughs. "I think I'd rather pitch for the Redskins!"

"Riley, that's a football team." For some reason, I thought he would be into baseball. Guess not.

"Is there a difference?" he says, as if the only plausible answer is "no."

"Mm…yeah. There kind of is. For one thing, football doesn't have pitchers." This is sad—I am the most illiterate sports person ever and I still know more than him.

"They so have pitchers!"

"They have _quarterbacks_."

"Those guys still technically pitch the ball to those uh…running back guys who hit it with a bat."

"Running backs don't have bats, but I bet the game would be a _lot_ more interesting if they did." Think about it—some guy gets in your way and whack! Out comes the bat. Though I'm pretty sure that would be a foul. But I'm no referee.

He chuckles a bit, then casts his eyes on the bed cover. "Something wrong, Riley?" All I get is a shrug and no eye contact.

"Well…" he sighs heavily after a while. "Are…are you…OK?" Mouth scrunched up to one side of his face in worry, he finally casts his gaze up at me. Instantly I get almost physically smacked with the concern radiating from his unremitting stare. Dammit…he must have heard me last night…whatever I was saying. But…how do I tell him that I had to watch him die? That won't exactly lighten the mood. "Come here…" I grab him and pull him into a hug, holding him there with my face (still partially covered in bits of Jello) buried in his shoulder. "Please tell me I'm not imagining you."

"…what?"

"Imagining you…alive."

By his long sigh and temporary increase in the strength of his embrace, I think he understands. We sit there together for the longest time, longer than any normal dream could possibly show. Finally, the anxiety I've been feeling since I was jarred awake subsides and I pull away to see him with a tiny grin. "I'm not going anywhere," he says, smile growing. "You've made sure of that more than once."

I wish I could believe him, I really do. But since this whole ordeal has literally exploded (not unlike that Jello cup) I've realized…I've realized nothing can be assumed. We are a pretty lucky group of people—more than a couple times Abigail's pointed out the odds we have been working against. How likely was it that my metal detector could find the Charlotte's plaque, or that _all_ of Ian's bullets could miss, or that all of us could make it off the tilting table of doom, or that my shoe could actually break somebody's nose? Not very, and I think my subconscious just tried to tell me that—that what I dreamt could have very well been reality. Internally, I shudder a bit, but I still feel as though I'm missing something…

"You're being all quiet again," Riley says.

"Yeah…well…there's a lot to think about."

"True…" he sighs. "I've been doing my fair share." I fake a look of surprise, which earns me a sharp slap on the arm. "Haha. OK. But really…we actually haven't discussed it."

"Discussed what?"

"The treasure," he says with the slightest bit of annoyance. "It's always over some treasure. I mean…is it really worth it? Is some treasure really worth all that they've done? And I'm not just talking about Ahmed…I'm talking about Ahmed and Mitch and Ian and all their little cronies. When everything's said and done, does a stash of gold justify all that violence?"

He sighs again, his gaze far beyond the room where we're sitting—in the shine off his eyes, I can almost see down the barrel of Ian's gun or Mitch's fast approaching knuckles. He's clearly been churning these thoughts over and over in his head since we returned from Syria. And for the first time, I feel as though I can accurately describe what type of role he has truly been playing these past years, and a brief wave of guilty nausea courses through me at the thought.

"No…it's not justified," I say, knowing that he was just speaking aloud and that I really don't have to speak at all. "But we can't change anything based on justification. Things are still going to keep happening, justified or not, and we are just going to have to show that we can overcome it." Wow. That actually sounded pretty good for right off the top of my head.

"Ben, you know what we've got to do."

"I do?"

"Well…" he says, running one hand through his already-ruffled hair. "What we always do: find the treasure. It could explain my side of the story and the process would put the universe back in order. Ahmed and them are the only ones after it at the moment—the 'axiom of treasure hunting' is not being fulfilled."

He's got a point—this is pretty much exactly like the motivation that led to Cibola. If we find this Thai treasure, then we could prove the allegations against Ahmed's organization. The situation couldn't be more fitting, like he implied: it does always end up being about "some treasure."

XXX

It's one o'clock later that night, and we are still up, thanks to some horror movie Caroline and Riley forced us all to watch. Typically, when such a movie is being played, I leave the vicinity for a few hours, but given my rough night I was unfortunately a little more amenable. So we all settled in for the film—_The Invasion_—in which an alien germ takes over the world, turning people into emotionless, super-strong zombie-like beings. It's not a really "scary" concept, per se, until you realize the germ takes effect while you sleep after being infected, usually through an unceremonious spit to the face. So now no one wants to go to bed…it's going to be a _very_ long night.

"How long do you think you can stay awake on caffeine…hypothetically of course?" Riley asks, clutching a pillow from the sofa. We're all gathered around the breakfast table in the kitchen, coffee in hand, and stifling yawns.

"Riley, it's a movie," Abigail sighs.

"I don't see _you_ going to bed."

"Hey, I thought you wanted to talk about the treasure, but if you're going to stay obsessed about the movie…" Her thought process is interrupted by another effort to prevent a particularly large yawn.

"I'm sorry for being curious!"

Rolling her eyes, Caroline takes a large swig of coffee and soon has a mischievous glint in her grin. Uh-oh…not a good combination…

_Splat!_ A bit of the coffee goes flying across the table and into Riley's face, and he immediately topples out of his seat with a thud. "OH GOD! I'M CONTAMINATED! I CAN NEVER GO TO SLEEP AGAIN!"

If I weren't so exhausted, I would most definitely be laughing at him. But all any of us (except Caroline…she seems rather pleased with herself) can do is stare at his as he continues to flip out; occasionally Abigail and I exchange blank yet confused looks, trying to suppress a grin.

Eventually, he pulls himself back up into the chair and glares at Caroline. "You're one of _them_! One of those zombies!"

"Oh, yeah. Darn, you caught me," she says dramatically, laden with cynicism. "'Cause you know that makes _all_ the sense in the world…especially since I've been acting normal, and _not_ like an emotionless zombie. Can we please get on with the treasure before Riley calls Ghostbusters on all of us?"

Silence—in the background, the TV that we keep on CNN constantly is emitting a garbled stream of news and long repetitive commercials while Riley wipes the last of Caroline's drink off his face. Amazingly, Sadusky and his squad (according to the news station) are still running around in Rome. As everyone else has pointed out numerous times, our contact with the US Embassy should at least have alerted them to our changing location, even if the Embassy didn't recognize him, which is odd enough in itself. Ugh, all this is making my brain hurt. The clues for the Templar treasure were less ambiguous than this.

"Earth to Ben…" Riley calls, waving a hand lazily in my face. "Treasure, remember?"

"Right, right," I yawn. "So let's start at the beginning. What do we know?"

"It's in Thailand," Abigail sighs. We look around at each other, hoping someone else will speak up.

"Is that it?

"Unfortunately."

"Unless…" Riley says thoughtfully. "Did anybody hear anything along the lines of 'The secret lies with Hassad'?"

"Uh…" I say after an awkward pause. "Don't think so." Well, it was worth a shot. "But does anybody know…anything…about Thailand?"

Caroline shakes her head and Abigail mutters something like "minimal," but Riley throws in, "I did a report on Thailand in the eighth grade."

"OK, good. What do you remember?"

"I couldn't pronounce a lot of their names."

"No, like about the history and such."

"Mm…besides pronunciation of the rulers' names…my teacher got mad at me for the 'unprofessional' way I worded things…like I said 'The Khmers got kicked out in 1238.' Is that _really _that unprofessional?"

"The Khmers?" Abigail seems a great deal more awake.

"Yeah…they were in control of the region for a long time until they got run out."

"Ben," she says, tapping her hand on the table. "Doesn't that ring a bell?"

I really wish she wasn't trying to interrogate me when I'm not functioning all that well. How am I supposed to recognize some obscure Southeast-Asian ethnic group? I know absolutely nothing about Asia, and I proved that when Mom and Dad came home that night from India—

Wait a second.

"The secret stitching," I murmur. "The secret stitching Mom and Dad found in New Delhi that pointed to a treasure of the Khmers!" By the time I finish my sentence, I'm almost shaking with that normal "eureka!" rush. "They have the next clue."

Silence ensues as the news sinks in, and faces frozen in pensive shock stare back at me. "That has to be…_the_ biggest coincidence I have ever heard of," Caroline says after a while. "Not that I'm complaining…but _still_…"

"And you know what the best part is?" Riley adds with a yawn, leaning back some in his chair. "If Patrick and Emily have had this clue for any length of time, they've probably already got it figured out."

Hopelessness be gone! And to quote that pirates movie Riley made Abigail and I watch a while back, "We have our heading!" I'm so excited I could dance…but Riley would most likely scream something about his retinas being burned.

"I don't know…" Abigail sighs. "I mean, it's your parents, Ben. I love them and all, but something tells me it's not going to be so easy…"

Bubble burster. Again.

XXX

**Woo. So, if you don't remember the "secret stitching," check chapter 2 or 3. And the whole thing with the "The Invasion" movie completely happened to me. One of my friends even pretended to spit in my face. Basically, me plus horror movies equals a large neon sign that says "NO."**

**So yeah. You know you want to review, 'cause you know I want to hear from you. **


	14. Chapter 14

**Guess what? I'm not dead! Yay! Sorry for the lengthy update time…long story. Hopefully updates will be a little less spaced out like this one has been, even though they may still be a bit sporadic for a while. I'm not sure yet. But thanks for dealing with the wait.**

**Disclaimer: No, I did not out to conquer the rights to National Treasure instead of updating. So…I still don't own it. (Tear)**

**_Chapter Fourteen_**

Before the last echoes of the doorbell had time to fade, Caroline, Abigail and I (with Riley hiding right behind us) now find ourselves face-to-face with a confused Dad. No doubt he's thinking of the last time this happened—I can see it in his eyes.

"Dad!" I say with a smile. "I'm, uh…in a little trouble…again."

Abigail, having already been through something like this before, is perfectly fine, but Caroline is squirming nervously. Frankly, it's not helping that Dad's eyeing both of them with his trademark skeptical look.

"Ben…" he says finally, lowering his voice. "Are…_both_ of them pregnant?"

"Um…what?" Caroline mutters incredulously.

"It's his customary greeting for new members of the entourage. Don't take it personally," I say over my shoulder before turning back to Dad. "But seriously. We're all in a little trouble."

"About what?" Now he at least seems genuinely curious. "Did you find another old Masonic pipe that told you to steal the Articles of Confederation, or what?"

Before he can stop himself, Riley lets out a small snigger. "Um…" Dad says slowly. "Who was that?"

"Well…that's why we're in some trouble…" We step away and reveal Riley, who waves slightly.

"Ta…da…?"

Dad's gaze focuses on me intently for a moment, then falls to the walk as his eyebrows fly up in contemplation. "Yeah, I would say you were in a little trouble." As he looks back up to continue, another voice echoes from inside, getting louder.

"Is that Benjamin?" Soon Mom also appears in the doorway and stops cold upon seeing Riley. "My…come on in before the FBI sees you!" By the way she said that, I would have thought she was saying "come in or you'll catch cold." But colds are never the issue. It's always "come in or you'll catch FBI," or "catch bullet wounds," or "catch a ridiculously heavy history volume in the head." Never colds—they're too normal.

As soon as the door snaps shut behind us, I realize it would have been in our best interests to call and let them in on what we know beforehand. It's going to be rather difficult to convince them—their cold stares at Riley are proof enough.

"Ben," Dad sighs, plopping onto the couch. "What is it with you and doing really illegal things?" Ugh. I didn't come here to be lectured, thank you very much. "Albeit you had inklings of justification with the Declaration and the president, but what about this?" he says, pointing to Riley, who is standing off by himself.

"You know, I _am_ right here," he mutters feebly.

"There is no reason that could possibly justify breaking him out of prison," Dad continues, ignoring Riley's comment completely.

"You know what's frustrating me?" I exclaim, suddenly very irked. "Dad, you seemed so _calm_ about it all when I told you about the whole thing when you came over for dinner that night. You told me to 'search for clues' since I was so lost and confused—it didn't seem to phase you at all. What changed?"

"I wasn't actually considering you going this far, frankly!"

"You don't know anything about what we're dealing with—"

"Really? I researched this whole situation on the internet—I found over twenty informative and analytical articles, Ben!"

"Were any of them written by _him_, Dad? He's the only primary source we have. _He's_ the only one with the whole story right now. You can't get much more informed than that."

In the background, it sounds like Riley mutters, "Still here" under his breath. God, I wish Dad would just _stop talking_.

"_Boys_…" Mom interjects forcefully. "Stop. Sit down. We'll discuss this calmly"—at this, she shoots daggers of implication in her glare towards Dad, who sighs—"all right?"

We all find a chair or couch to sit on, except Riley by the fireplace. It hits me suddenly—they're going to make him explain, relive everything. They're going to make him show his mutilated and scarred arm, tell about Ahmed, Talal, the still-unresolved issue with Caroline. The pain that would bring is not what we came here for.

"Mom, now's not the best time to get into all that," I say quickly. "We _will_ explain, but please understand that in order to solve this problem…we need your help."

"With what?" she probes with a hint of curiosity, leaning back in her chair.

"The treasure…the one you found a clue for when you went to New Delhi?" Instead a response, I receive a pair of raised eyebrows. "Well…we need the clue."

"We've already solved it," Dad says from his seat. "Or…at least—"

"_I_ did," Mom cuts him off. "So…what you're saying is…you need to find this treasure?" I nod, and reluctantly so. I can just feel her vibes of "not _again_" rolling off her. "You obviously want to know about it then?"

"That would be pretty helpful," Caroline says with a smile. "Oh, and uh…my name's Caroline, by the way." I wonder if she thinks this is an awkward situation…maybe she hasn't noticed yet, but my parents are (save for Dad at first) pretty relaxed. They're used to things like this; I'm pretty sure Dad didn't even know Abigail's name that first night when we showed up with the Declaration.

"Well then," Mom says, sitting up on the edge of her seat. Looks like we're in for a dissertation. "I would say 'let's start at the beginning,' but the clue we found is actually in the middle."

"Really? How does that work?" Riley wonders aloud.

"The stitching we deciphered referenced the location of the first clue, the library of Ivan the Terrible of Russia."

"Russia?" he interrupts again. "Why would a European country have anything to do with a treasure in Thailand?"

"Up until the reign of Peter the Great," Abigail says. "Russia was viewed by western Europe as Asian. It's not _that_ far-fetched."

"Anyway," Mom continues. "It is extremely likely part of the treasure has its origin there, so that's maybe why the clue was in the library, whose location has remained a mystery. So Russia and what was then the Kingdom of Ayutthaya must have had _some _contact since the latter is the treasure's location. Ayutthaya most likely took over the smaller Khmer treasure and then made the European additions. But the most important thing you all are going to have to worry about is the entrance to the treasure chamber, somewhere in Wat Phra Keo—"

"The Temple of the Emerald Buddha in the Grand Palace?" Riley exclaims. "Holy Lord…that place is not only one of the busiest tourist spots—it's also the holiest areas in the entire country! They're not going to let us waltz in and start searching it for the entrance."

Much to my (and Riley's, it seems) amusement, Mom and Dad both stare at him in amazement, quite shocked, before being able to continue. "Right…and they're not going to be too excited that you know about the treasure, either."

"Why?"

"Well…this is just speculation, but…" she sighs. "In 1997, an old Russian man named Apalos Ivanov came out and said he had found Ivan the Terrible's library, and lots of people believed him since he was blind…the legend said you would be if you found it. That same year in Thailand, if you remember, there were a lot of military coups…it led to a new constitution. Perhaps these leaders of the coups didn't like the methods that the government were taking to keep the treasure secret, especially since the location of a key clue was now supposedly revealed."

Gah…my brain is throbbing. "That's a lot of information," I say.

"And I think that's enough, Emily," Dad says with a significant look towards her. It's just a hunch, but I'm thinking he's still suspicious of us. Wonderful.

We sit in silence for a moment before Riley sighs, saying, "I'll call Talal…see if he can help…" Moving towards the other room, he flips out his cell phone and begins dialing.

"Tell your little terrorist buddies we say 'hello,'" Dad mutters.

Riley freezes in midstep. "They were never my friends." And then he disappears beyond the door, an awkward pause ensuing. Maybe it was him acknowledging terrorism was a component of the situation, or even the way he said it so bitterly, but Dad seems taken back by the comment and even more so when rapid Arabic emanates from the adjoining room.

"My opinion may not make much of a difference since you don't know me," Caroline says. "But there really is more than meets the eye about this whole thing, about…him. Please don't make a judgment too quickly. Like Ben said, he's really the only 'primary source' that's available."

"And you trust him?" Dad asks. "And I'm not talking about you two," he says with a dismissive wave at Abigail and I. "I mean_ you_, because I _know_ they do. But…I don't even know your relation to the kid. Do you trust him?"

Most of the cheerful shine gone from her eyes, she replies, "With my life. But don't any of you guys tell him that," she adds hurriedly, eyeing Abigail and I especially with a look of warning.

Interesting—that's all I'm saying.

"Well…" Riley sighs, entering the living room. "Talal says he can't help with something illegal…like messing around in Wat Phra Keo. So we're on our own…again. Unless you two turn us in."

"I'm not letting Patrick do anything of the sort until we get the full story," Mom says simply; all Dad can do is sigh. He must be so conflicted—he's willing to do all the crazy adventure stuff, but skirting the law like I tend to? Nope. Doesn't go there. On the other hand, I know he's fond of Riley…so…I don't know. As long as Mom doesn't let him near a phone, we'll be fine.

After a few quick good-byes, we're on our way again and driving back to Washington. Conversation is nearly nonexistent, except for a couple murmurs about how Sadusky was supposed to be back in the US today. This may sound quite unlike me, but if it weren't for Riley's predicament, I wouldn't be going after this treasure. Risking our lives and well-being for something whose whereabouts were stitched into a random rug, and one that we haven't even seen? Well, on second thought, putting our lives on the line for a phrase on a yellowing piece of paper given to my ancestor by a dying old man and for smudges of an incomplete cipher from an assassin's diary didn't make much sense either. But at least then we didn't have to travel to _Asia_.

Finally we arrive back in the city and its familiar hustle and bustle, which gets us stuck in traffic nearby the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building. "How…ironic," Riley comments to himself.

I hate traffic…so, so much. Tapping the steering wheel, and muttering to myself, all I want to do is slam on the gas and ram these stupid cars out of my way. Unfortunately, that might draw a bit of unwanted attention, so I must refrain. Congratulations drivers ahead of me: your vehicles will live to see tomorrow.

After a while, they must sense my animosity since the line of cars finally begins to budge. "Thank God," I mutter.

"Don't start rejoicing too soon," Abigail says with a hint of fear. "Look."

Seeing as we are only going about seven miles per hour, I deem it safe to glance over at the sidewalk to our right. Fast approaching at a brisk walk is—just our luck—Agent Sadusky.

"Oomph!"

"Don't 'oomph' me, Riley," Caroline says from the back. I notice via rearview mirror that she has shoved his head underneath the window, out of view. "Do you want this Sadusky guy to see you?"

"Could've warned me."

I kept my gaze on Sadusky, fingers strumming the wheel; I have a strange urge to grin. Well…it's been bothering me: why has he been so secretive about giving the public crucial information that would help catch Riley? He must know I'm behind breaking him out. But I haven't _seen_ him since then…time to test something, and if it goes wrong, well…we have a car, and he doesn't. At last the corners of my mouth twitch to a smile.

"Benjamin Franklin Gates," Abigail says slowly. "Don't you dare. Don't you _dare_ wave at him." Whoa—did she learn some mind-reading tricks from Caroline?

"What harm will it do?"

"Um, I might get arrested," Riley calls from the back. True, but…based on Sadusky's past behavior…

And a-waving I go, much to Abigail's chagrin and suppressed horror. And, much to her surprise, he waves back with a smile and continues on his way.

"What…in…the world…?" she says with clear disbelief, watching him as he calmly walks past the again-stalled car.

"What?" Riley says. "What did he do?" He sits up enough so only his head is visible through the window.

And at that moment, Sadusky decides to look back.

It seems Riley and the agent's gazes lock for half a second before Caroline hastily shoves him back down. This is bad. Very bad. Very bad as in I can't think of any other adjectives.

"What's he doing, Abigail?" I say, the traffic thankfully picking up to normal speed.

"He's…he's…" She can't finish her thought.

"He's shaking his head," Caroline supplies. "And it looks like he's laughing. And now…" She pauses. "Now he's going to Starbucks!"

"That man makes no sense!" Riley's muffled voice exclaims. "Hm! I just saw the man I've been trying to capture. Let's go get a latté. No correlation. None."

As Riley continues to rant about the peculiarity of it all, Abigail turns to me, concerned. "Ben," she whispers. "Something's not right…"

XXX

**Hm…what IS up with Sadusky? Answers later…like maybe five chapters later? And also…the speculation of how Apalos Ivanov's claim and the Thai coups relate is all made up for the story. The stuff about each of them is true, but not so much how they relate. Just clarifying.**

**You know the drill: please review. **


	15. Chapter 15

**OK. Here's fifteen…finally. This is one of those chapters where I later wondered exactly how much caffeine I put in my system beforehand. Just so you know. But there is a point to it all.**

**Disclaimer: They are Disney's characters. Except Caroline and the OC's. You get the point.**

Chapter Fifteen

"After a long two-week search of Rome, Agent Peter Sadusky and his team of the Federal Bureau of Investigation have returned home to the States, concluding that Riley McLaughlin has already moved on and that locating him will be much easier with the equipment at the base here.

"While Sadusky continues the search, citizens across the nation seem to be taking personal security into their own hands. Electronic stores across the nation, as well as in Canada and some other European countries, have reported a drastic boom in the sales of antivirus and firewall software for home computers. Though the FBI warns that such programs will probably be ineffective against the capabilities of McLaughlin, consumers, well…continue to consume—"

Caroline clicks the TV off with a sigh. "Wow," she says, turning to Riley on the couch beside her. "Best Buy must love you even more."

"Ha ha," he mutters dryly. His gaze is fixed on the latest issue of _Time_ magazine, his own face staring back at him beneath a head of messy red hair.

I flip it over. "Come on, now. You must have read that article at least ten times."

"I know…" Sighing, he turns his attention to Abigail, who is scouring the bookshelf behind us. "What are you looking for?"

"Something…_anything_ that could help us."

"Don't you think we should plan…and then do some research?"

"Riley." With her perfected impatient glare, she stares him down, pausing her search. "It makes much more sense to do it the other way around. Do you think Ben and Ian decided to go on an Arctic excursion before they had done any research on the _Charlotte_?"

"Yeah, well we know where it is, unlike last time." He purses his lips, probably in an attempt to keep his eyes from rolling. "No riddles—just solving the big puzzle chamber every treasure seems to have. They must mass produce them _somewhere_."

"Who's 'they'?" Caroline asks.

"Y'know, the same people in 'as they always say.' There's a committee…a secret one. 'They' meet in Geneva every so often to come up with a new adage or aphorism."

"Like what?"

"Well…'they' haven't tested this new saying yet…so…" Grimacing dramatically, he shrugs. "I _might_ have to kill you if I reveal it…but since you asked…hm…what was it?" He snaps his fingers and stares off into space philosophically. "…birds of a…_non_-feather…run on the ground…like monkeys." What? "Yeah, that's _deep_."

"Um…" she says, side-glancing him and then implying an infinite number of things while catching Abigail's eye. "No…it's not. You're talking about ostriches."

"No, you _think_ I'm talking about ostriches. But I'm not. Ostriches don't run like monkeys. They run like unbalanced fat men covered in bushels of feathers." Wow, OK—weird mental image.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caroline shake her head. "You make no sense."

"Your _face_ makes no sense."

"Your _mom_ makes no sense."

"Well…well…" Strike this one down in the record books—Riley has no instant comeback. "…your left _big toe_ makes no sense."

"Riley," she gasps sarcastically. "That hurt." Shaking her head again, she stands abruptly and walks alongside the back of the couch—and slaps Riley in the back of the head.

"Hey—OW!" Maybe he's too busy rubbing his head to notice, but as Caroline leaves the room, I swear I hear her chuckle.

XXX

Caroline doesn't appear for a couple more hours, which allowed Abigail to pull off a book or two for us to pour over in the meantime. Impatiently, she's been flipping through one stocky volume's index for the past twenty minutes. On the other hand, Riley seems to find the photo of Thai king Bhumibol Adulyadej quite intriguing, as he's been staring at it for a straight ten minutes. I'm highly tempted to take the book from him, since I have none myself, but…he should feel a part of things, I guess.

All of a sudden, Caroline skips into the kitchen, headphones jammed into her ears and blasting some sort of music so loudly we can hear it across the room. Her hands grip the black iPod precariously as she hums along with the song.

After about ten seconds of her humming, Riley and Abigail's heads both snap up. "Hey…" Riley says slowly. "_Italian in Algiers_…hold up. Did you steal my iPod?" he says incredulously with a glare.

"You have classical music by Rossini on your iPod?" Abigail says with just as much disbelief.

"Yeah, what's the big deal?" She begins to laugh, but stops abruptly.

"Oh. You were serious?" And back to the index she goes.

"Um…I begin, though my train of thought is being distracted by Caroline's dancing. "I've been meaning to ask you…what's up with all the classical music on that thing?"

Riley shrugs nonchalantly with an unconvincing frown and turns back to King Adulyadej, but Caroline stops her dance-fest immediately. My "this is about to turn into a big scene" sensors are going nuts.

"Riley!" she exclaims. "Do you mean you haven't told them?" Yeah…I think those sensors are getting to be pretty accurate. But what she was referring to we don't find out straight away because the two of them suddenly bolt out of the kitchen and into the living room—Riley looked like her was chasing her. "What?" she says, standing on the opposite side of the coffee table from him. "You haven't told them your 'dirty little secret'?"

"Considering all that's been revealed about me in the past few months, I highly doubt there's anything left that would fall under that category, thank you very much."

"But I _do_ remember you telling me something about…hm…middle school, was it?" Silence—I take it Riley's now just remembering or silently telling her not to say another word.

"No," he says with an implied warning. "Do _not_."

"Let me listen to your iPod and my mouth stays shut." Even though I can't see them, I am pretty sure a sly grin is spreading across her face. I discretely inch my chair back far enough so I have a decent view. Hm…seems Riley's conflicted; he's not doing such a great job concealing his emotions this time. Each time his eyes fall upon the mp3 player, he gets a look of distress which quickly turns into a frustrated glare when he looks back at Caroline.

"Never…!"

"Fine then. Hey, Ben and Abigail! Guess what? Riley played flute in middle school!"

"THAT'S IT! YOU'RE DEAD!"

Hm…well then. As their steps thunder across the hardwood floors, I try to imagine a twelve-year-old, redhead Riley trying to play a flute. I think some of my brain cells just fizzled out in the attempt. "Can't see it…" I mumble.

"Me neither," Abigail sighs, eyes only lifting from the infamous index to gaze curiously up at the ceiling for a moment after a particularly loud thud. "You think everything's OK?"

"Yeah…come on…Riley's not a violent person." That thud is probably worrying her though… "One of them tripped or accidentally ran into a wall most likely." Going around sharp turns on unstable rugs while sprinting leads to a quick acquaintance with either the wall or floor. Whenever that happens to me, I insist that Abigail and I install phones in more rooms. Tripping is so unpleasant.

"They would have learned from the master," she says casually.

"Hey—I don't take apprentices."

Taking advantage of the lull in conversation and bizarre chase noises from above, I snatch Riley's heavy volume and flip through it. Turns out the picture of the king is one of the few in the entire book…and no wonder Riley had a hard time pronouncing these names. The most user-friendly one I come across is "Chulalongkorn." But still, it's a doozy compared to John Adams or Henry Clay.

"BEN! Riley's got an umbrella!" Oh dear—Abigail and I exchange glances of everything from shock to confusion and stare helplessly at the ceiling.

"Yeah, that's right. I'm Mary Poppins, and I'm going to kill you!" And on with the panicked running…but no thuds. Those rugs must just have a specific vendetta against me.

"Oh my god," Abigail mutters, standing. "What are they, ten years old?" Clearly miffed, she stomps out of the room and I hear her loud shoes click all the way up the stairs. There are many, _many_ things I would do, but intervening on this confrontation? No way in Cibola. Abigail's a brave woman.

And also effective, as it seems—the hubbub has quieted briefly, only to be shattered by a fit of giggling. No sooner has the giggling began do I hear those shoes click back down the steps in an even more irritated manner. She plops back on the chair and shakes her head slightly, some sort of white grainy substance flying everywhere. "You know what he said to me Ben? 'A spoonful of sugar makes the mean Declaration lady go down.' And then he dumps a ladleful of sugar on me. Is that the thanks we get?"

"Come on, Abigail…he's just riled up."

"That _would_ make sense. 'Riley' is sort of a derivative of 'riled.'"

"I wouldn't know. I failed calculus."

And echoing from upstairs: "I didn't!" Riley must have supersonic hearing or something, I swear.

"But besides the Mary Poppins referencing," she continues. "I discovered something. You know the door at the very top of the stairs, the one that you couldn't figure out why it was locked? Yeah, well…Riley's a squirrel." I fail to see how those two correlate just yet, but I won't say anything. "He hoards food—lots of food. Like those cookies I lost before the St. Patrick's Day party a couple months ago…he has them. And…he got creative with the Skittles."

"Excuse me?"

"Apparently he loves Skittles—but only the red ones. So he built things with the other colors."

"Like what?" I don't remember them talking about the properties of Skittles in my mechanical engineering classes. Maybe I skipped class that day.

"Pyramids. Color-coded pyramids. He's got a purple one, a yellow one, an orange one, and three green ones, and he calls them the Skittle-yramids of Giza. Ben," she says with a look that is highly reminiscent of when she asked Riley and I if Bigfoot stole the pipe. It feels like so long ago. But she seems to have reconsidered what she was going to say because all I get is a barely perceptible shake of the head.

The chaos upstairs returns with a bang—or more like an extended patter of thousands of what sounds like Skittles. I can't resist any longer: I make my way to the foot of the stairs, Abigail close behind, and stop, not being able to go any further. Indeed it was Skittles that made the noise and now coat the entire staircase and part of the foyer in a crunchy sugary coating. The door to Riley's "hoarding room" is wide open, and in the frame stands Riley, who seems to have abandoned his umbrella for a manila folder, and Caroline, who is armed with an opened jumbo pack of Twinkies. One piece of her ammo is slightly smeared across his face.

"Uh…hi, Ben," Riley says, casting his eyes down. "Sorry about the uh…yeah."

We'll worry about this later. "So…" I say, clapping my hands together once. "About that treasure…"

XXX

It took almost an hour to rid the foyer of the Skittle deluge. Every so often, Riley would mutter "sorry" and go on to say how he made the pyramids whenever he had a bad bout of insomnia and got bored with the internet—that's pretty bad. And apparently the only reason he was hoarding all the food there is because it was closer than the kitchen to his room and not near Abigail's and my room at all, so his nighttime wanderings wouldn't wake us. I guess, in a sort of _roundabout_ way, it's actually kind of nice of him. Abigail doesn't agree; she's still upset over the St. Patrick's Day cookies.

"Ben, please don't zone out while you're driving," Abigail sighs beside me. Geez…I'm getting bad about that. And I think I'll start inching a bit further from the double yellow line that my car tire has been flirting with.

"Aw, Abigail," Riley chuckles from the back seat. "I can't help it if my food's smell is so deliciously intoxicating!" Grinning, he picks up the McDonald's bag and jingles it in the space between the two front seats.

"Yeah…" Caroline says. "Speaking of your food, why'd you buy a Happy Meal?"

"I'm not all that hungry…and I love cheap plastic toys!" Now, it is a rare occasion when we go out for fast food; the only reason we even considered it was because of the Skittlemania-induced fatigue. Riley obviously seemed like he didn't want to make us clean up his mess _and_ make dinner. Has he…always been this way, this…furtively considerate? I exhale a bit, but not enough to make it a sigh. Score one for the guilt meter.

"Holy Lord, those people got my order wrong!" he exclaims suddenly, his nose shoved in the small, colorful bag.

"Just scrape the mustard off the burger," Caroline grumbles. "It's not that big a tragedy."

"It is when they give you chicken nuggets instead…and the girl toy!" Taking a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I see him roll down the window and chuck the entire bag to the side of the road with an irritated sigh. "I hate chicken." Glowering, he rolls the window back up. Guess that was the straw that broke the camel's back—not that he hasn't had enough to carry around already. Oh well…he probably just made a couple animals very happy.

"Wow," Caroline says. "Way to get angry at your Happy Meal. Go contradict the world, why don't you?"

Ah, silence—it's such a nice thing to savor after the constant chatter that's been buzzing in my ear for the past few days. I even take the long way home, for I know once the engine is cut, the bickering will surface yet again.

Back at the house, everyone is gathered around the square breakfast table, still uncharacteristically silent. Abigail catches my eye and gives me this "get on with it" look, probably referring to something we discussed earlier. Wow…I am not looking forward to this…

"So…about the trip to Bangkok," I say; their attention is immediately drawn back from whatever mental world they were in. "Um…Caroline? I think you should stay here."

"Wha—why?"

"Well…"

"Is it because of today? 'Cause I promise to behave—"

"It's not all that," I say hastily. "There are…other things. We need to keep this place looking inhabited…it would look kind of suspicious otherwise, especially if we're over there for a while. And, no offense, but Abigail and Riley have been through these treasure hunts before, and this one is most likely going to be one of the more dangerous we've encountered. And…"

"…and you don't want another scene like today," she finishes. "I understand." The silent post script "grudgingly" seems to almost physically hang in the air before her.

"We really are sorry," Abigail says.

"Yeah," Riley adds with a nod.

"What do you care?" Her chair scraping across the kitchen floor, Caroline gets up, and we follow her footsteps all the way to her room.

It's not my business to meddle in the personal lives of others, but I really can't help but feel an unbelievingly strong urge to figure out just what is going on between those two. I just…it boggles my mind.

XXX

**Yeah…Skittle pyramids…need I say anything?**

**PS – If you didn't see, the lost oneshot mentioned in the chapter 8 author's note was found and posted…(dances)**

**I will do my best to update next week (my weekend is swamped with…how ironic…US history homework!) before I go out of town next weekend. So…please review! **


	16. Chapter 16

**OK. Time for some relative normalcy in the midst of English-essay-writer's-block.**

**Disclaimer: I try to be creative with these things, but there's only so many ways I can say I don't own the characters…which, incidentally, is true. What do you know.**

**_Chapter 16_**

You know, it's a good thing the Templar treasure was worth as much as it was, or we'd never be able to afford all the tickets and airfare Abigail's been securing for us. We would have to resort to hiding in luggage or under seats…or do something even more insane than usual.

"We should be leaving, Ben." I turn and find Abigail in the front door, bag in hand. Riley and I are still in the foyer, facing a grim-looking Caroline. As much as she may not like it, it's for the better.

"Well…" Caroline sighs. "I guess…I'll be seeing you."

"Sorry…"

"No need to apologize, Ben," she says with a small grin. "I understand, really."

As Abigail and I say our sort of terse, awkward good-byes, we both notice Riley's silence. Caroline, too, seems to take note.

"Hey." The lone syllable holds his feet still. "Don't do anything too stupid when you're over there, all right?" Despite the concern that's bubbling a bit in her voice, he still says nothing, only giving her one of those grimace-like smiles. "You think I'm kidding. If I get wind of you short-sheeting the king, you better bet I'll be on the next plane over."

"Why? To give me crap about it?"

"No." This garners a surprised look. "To bail you out. Though I'm sure Ben and Abigail would do a fine job themselves." The corners of her mouth twitch so slightly that I doubt anyone else notices. "Take care."

The crunch of the gravel under our shoes is loud enough to almost drown out the sound of the front door latching shut and to stifle attempts at conversation. Though I'm sure, especially by the others' pensive expressions, that's not the only factor.

XXX

Have I mentioned how much I despise airplanes? I go almost my entire life and only ride one maybe six times and then in the course of a month I'm in them nonstop. And when I say "nonstop," I mean it: the combined air time to Bangkok of all the flights we had to book is insane, so insane it depresses me to dangerously low levels.

Abigail, being as smart as she is, brought a book or two and some sleeping meds, and it goes without saying that Riley resembled a miniature walking electronics store while boarding the plane. Me, I brought nothing. So I watched all the in-flight movies, read all the catalogs, and perused all the safety pamphlets—in more than one language. And you know what? I think we've still got something like ten hours to go.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

I decide to gaze out the window, seeing as I have a window seat, but after about thirty seconds, the Pacific Ocean and all of its monotonous wonder begin to bore. I could discuss history or something with Abigail, but she's unconscious, a frayed copy of _The Great Gatsby_ cracked open and lying on her tray table.

From the mini row of two seats in front of us, I hear Riley's fingers flying across the keyboard at an ungodly speed—something that would take me an hour to type would be typed, printed, and bound in a colorful portfolio in less than half the time if he was in charge of it.

Having nothing else to occupy myself, I peer over the back of his seat and find him chatting away on an instant messenger. The internet and being on a plane—isn't there something about that, like how you're _not_ supposed to do it? I could be wrong though, so I keep my mouth shut.

And from the looks of it, he's talking to Caroline. But what intrigues me about their conversation is the sincere lack of animosity…or maybe it's because I may be missing their implied sarcasm. I don't know—I'm still mulling it over when the conversation lulls a bit. And suddenly Riley's fingers move a great deal more clumsily across the keys, stumbling over the space bar and any letter that gets in his way. Curious, I squint to see what he is about to send, and what I read comes at me just as unexpected as Sadusky's duck comment, only with a stab of pity-laced shock.

_You know I still love you, right?_

He stares at it, tilting his head at the blinking cursor, but then holds down the backspace key and sends something more mundane. The process repeats itself numerous times over the next hour: the same sentence typed, never to be sent…only buried deeper with the secrets of his past, of which we've only scratched the surface, where we must dig through every falsehood he was forced to construct to protect himself from the products of misinformation and warped facts.

Unaware that I sighed heavily right into the back of his head, Riley turning around takes me by surprise. "Um…hi, Ben…?"

"Hey, uh…sorry, I was looking at the…hairdo of the guy in front of you." The guy has an afro the size of the Time's Square New Year's ball…it would be reasonable to have me stare at it, right?

"Yeah," he says, though sounding a bit preoccupied. "It is rather bulbous, isn't it?" Nodding awkwardly, we both remain silent despite the afro-man's obvious fake coughing; I can tell Riley's trying to fight the urge to reference some architectural structure.

"So!" I finally say. "I see you're on the internet…isn't that, uh…"

"I figured out a way to prevent interference, so it's all good." His eyes flit nervously from the minimized screen to my face, implicitly questioning what I have seen.

"Anything you want to talk about? You seem antsy." Unfortunately, this just makes it worse.

"Nah, I'm fine, perfectly fine. And shut up with the coughing Mr. Pantheon-head!" he adds with a roll of the eyes. "Could you _be_ more conspicuous?" Somehow I knew that urge wasn't going to stay suppressed for long.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Have you _seen_ his dome-like head?"

"No, I mean about _you_."

The grin that was tugging on the corners of his lips quickly fades and is covered up half a second later with a false one. "_Yes_, Ben. I'm cool. But do you mind doing your 'fro observing from some other angle, 'cause the one you've got going on now is kind of uncomfortable. No offense."

"None taken. I'm just bored."

"Watched all the movies?"

"Mhm, even the Disney cartoon and the romantic comedy. I'm desperate."

"Must be."

No sooner have I settled back in my seat do I hear the tapping of the keyboard start up again and the thought of their conversation comes drifting back to my idle mind. A few more times before sleep claims me at last, my ears pick up the slow, labored typing, pregnant pause, and the holding down of a single key.

XXX

The room, from the ceiling to the walls to the furniture, is black—black as night, black as coal. In the center sits a lonely old chair, rickety with age, and seemingly ostracized from the black dresser, bookcase and bed. The long black curtains at the single window flutter hopefully and fall once again to its unmoving state. Only then does the figure in the chair become visible—clad in white, he clashes obviously with his background, except for his hair, his dark hair. But then, like bleeding ink, it morphs violently in splotches, orange-tinged red invading his only camouflage. The man senses the change and grows distressed, moving with fear towards the surrounding furniture and walls which inch just beyond his fingertips. Framed photos on the bureau crack as he approaches—one even completely shatters into nothing. And just when he stumbles upon the twinkling shards, the creak of an opening door finds its way to his ears.

"_Is…anyone there?" he calls, and he gets an indecipherable boom in return. "You sound familiar somehow…" He inches under the lone, naked lightbulb, his pupils fully contracting, making his eyes appear to be unblemished aquamarines. "But I don't know…" He pauses again. "Ben? No, it's not…wait!"_

Whoever it is clicks off the light, leaving the man in the suffocating darkness as the door squeaks shut, a sinister chuckle reverberating menacingly in the walls and into the heart of the trapped man…

Instead of being abruptly awaken (as it seems custom), I slowly ease back into consciousness from that odd, surreal dream, but only to be completely scared out of my wits by two impatient sets of eyes. "Um…" I say once I can put thoughts with words once more. Though I guess "um" doesn't count much as a word. "Hi?"

"We're in Bangkok," Riley says.

"And have been," Abigail adds.

"For a while."

"Like twenty minutes."

"And you've been sleeping like a dead man on jet lag who overdosed on morphine after a triathlon."

"OK," I say slowly, staring at Riley. "So what's up with you and the weird comparisons?" First the ostriches, now…I don't even know _what_ that was, and I'm not sure I want to. Thankfully, he shrugs my comment off as a rhetorical question.

"We should get off the plane before it ships us to Saigon," he says, halfway skipping off down the aisle while his computer bag slung over his shoulder whacks a small attendant.

"Come on, Ben." Abigail pulls me up out of the seat, which I seem to have glued myself to during the flight. "Did you steal a sleeping pill or something? You normally wake up when Riley starts prodding you."

"No…" Gah…my mind's still a bit foggy.

"Was it another dream?"

"…yeah."

"You seem to have those a lot." Out of the corner of my eye, I see her gaze quickly up at my face. "More than usual. And by 'usual,' I mean—"

"You mean before this whole thing started. I know," I finish. "Where's Riley? We can't afford to lose him." Scanning the crowd, I don't catch his familiar head of dark hair.

"Hey." And suddenly he's behind us. If he ever needs another new last name (God forbid), he should seriously give consideration to "Houdini," 'cause he just made me jump again. "Sorry," he says, chewing on something or other. "I'm a sucker for soft pretzels"—he holds up the giant, salted piece of bread—"and who _knew_ they'd be selling them at a Bangkok airport terminal?"

"I'll keep that in mind," I mutter as Abigail grabs his arm. I know this sounds paranoid, but what if there were more terrorists over where he went? Terrorists—or FBI even—selling pretzels: now isn't that an unsuspecting and clever guise? But in all honesty, I just want to resolve this treasure issue and go home; it's been one strange foreign country after another.

So after frantically trying to communicate with a Thai taxi driver whom we discovered did not speak a lick of English, German, or Arabic, we now are standing in the heart of Bangkok—and are very, very befuddled.

"So…where's this temple place?" Abigail says after watching traffic on the street for about five minutes.

"Heh heh…" Riley mutters while playing with the last bit of his pretzel. "See, uh…that's the funny part. I don't really—"

And with a miffed sigh, Abigail snatches the last of the pretzel and chucks it into the street where it gets run over by a rickshaw.

"Aw…now…now, you see…" Riley says as he looks from the street to Abigail and back again. "That was uncalled for." I say nothing, and she is clearly trying to keep her mouth shut too…only it looks as if her willpower is losing.

"_You _were uncalled for!"

Silence—despite the constant honking of cars and chatter of the people around us, a soundproof bubble descends over the three of us. Her glare slowly crumbles into apology.

"Riley, I didn't mean it—"

But all he does is shake his head and turn on the spot toward what looks like an information kiosk in the distance, trying to melt into the crowd. Not again—we can't lose him again, for what seems like the thousandth time.

"Riley—" I grab his forearm and pull him back. "It just popped out, come on—

"And are you going to act the mediator and always make excuses?"

"It's a ready-made comeback: you used it all the time back home—"

"It's not the same; I always at least _thought_ about what I was going to say—"

"Can we just go on and do what we need to get done and leave?" At this, he has no ready retort and instead resorts to staring. Tensions are running as high as our anxiety over the breaking and entering we're about to do—the sooner we leave, the better.

"Fine." Reluctantly, he follows me back to the street where I left Abigail—but she's not there. I spot her a few blocks down, getting directions from a merchant; I must admit, her sign language, as crude as it is, is impressive all the same. "I'm sorry," Riley says after a moment. "What she said just struck a chord…you two didn't know, so I really shouldn't have gotten so upset…"

"It's OK," I say, halfway absently, while keeping an eye on Abigail; it seems she has succeeded.

"Did I ever tell you about my parents?" He gazes up at me after a seconds but looks back at Abigail quickly for reasons I can't place. Even more inexplicably, in the silence he lets out a resigned sigh. I'm just about to say something when Abigail runs up to us, breathless.

"I got directions," she gasps, then directs her attention to Riley. "I truly am sorry."

"Don't worry about it." His sincerity calms her, but only worries me—it was overly sincere, not like him at all. Irony was almost dripping from it like water from a saturated paper towel. "Well then!" he continues in the uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "Where to, Dr. Chase?"

XXX

**Yay for transition chapters…? But just as a note, 17 is long. Long as in a LOT of stuff happens. So…yeah. You have been…not necessarily warned, but told. **

**And also...next update (since I got this one up quicker than I expected) won't be 'til probably the 21st, if I can function properly after sleeping on a charter bus with a bunch of hyperactive band kids. Sorry! **

**Please review! **


	17. Chapter 17

**There's not much I can say about this chapter beforehand. So I'll let you get on to your reading.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Je ne posséde rien. (Repeated in another language for emphasis that is probably not even needed by now.)**

**_Chapter 17_**

Riley was right that time—we _do_ make our living on "crazy." Because honestly, we have to be in order to try and sneak into a treasure chamber in this popular and holy (as he keeps reminding us) of a tourist attraction. The entire area of the complex which we find ourselves in is completely packed—who knew November meant tourists and pilgrims? We sure didn't.

Separating ourselves finally from the group, we jog along to the building that matches Abigail's description. Along the way we pass by the impressive golden pagoda that tapers off at the top to a spire. It's at times like these I wish I could go to someplace interesting and historical without having to risk my or anyone else's neck.

"This is?" Riley whispers as he eyes the ornate structure and gets bumped by people in the crowd.

"Pretty sure," Abigail says. "But if it's not, then it's not exactly the end of the world." He nods in agreement and we step inside.

"Wow."

Ahead of us, amidst a multitude of spires, statues, and the like, all intricately designed, is a central pillar of golden metal on which sits a forest green Buddha adorned with gold trimmings. All we can manage to do is stare as the crowd moves around our obstruction.

It's all very beautiful and striking, but a nagging thought keeps chipping away at my amazement: where is this secret chamber's entrance? And it's little buddy question follows close behind: how would we get in with all these people? Geez. We didn't think one through all the way.

"So, Ben…Abigail…" Riley sighs. "I'm lost."

Abigail too sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, but I keep eyeing the pillar beneath the famed and holy statue. It grows wider as it reaches the floor. If the clue was deciphered correctly, we have to be in the right place, and so there seems to be only one possible entrance.

"I think," I murmur. "that there may be a ladder or something under the statue and into the platform that it's on."

They both stare at me then size up the pillar; incredulity is written across their faces. "That's a stretch," Abigail mutters. "A serious stretch."

"And even if you're right, Ben, which you tend to be"—at this, Abigail rolls her eyes—"that might be a tad difficult to accomplish with all these witnesses. Then again, Sadusky would be overjoyed at that prospect and Ian could have a roommate or two again…that is, if we don't get thrown in Thai prison or roughed up by a mob of angry monks."

"I don't see you coming up with any ideas, Riley," I whisper back.

"Yeah, well I'm still thinking, unlike some people."

"You just said I tend to be right."

"Doesn't mean you are now."

OK then—he's jumped on the Abigail Train. Fine. But I just don't see where else this entrance would be. It's the same concept as the Declaration: an object of great importance makes sure the key stays safe as well as hidden. It couldn't be anything else.

"But…hypothetically speaking," I say. "How would you rid the temple of there people? You know, if I was right."

Seeing as no one has a ready answer, we amble back outside the building and park ourselves on a bench. Every so often Riley makes a motion like he has an idea, only to dispel it with a shake of the head. Abigail remains motionless, lost in thought. And for once, I have no plans coming to mind at all, so it wanders pointlessly…

_As much as I hated getting up and walking around on planes, I couldn't stand sitting there any longer—I actually felt as if my legs were about to stop functioning. So up I went, noting Abigail's empty seat beside me, meandering slowly towards the minuscule bathrooms and trying to stretch my knees. _

_It appeared Abigail had also gotten up with the same idea. "Hey," she sighed. "Nine hours of sitting too much for you?"_

"_Just a little…what are you doing up?"_

"_Thinking," she said with a frown. "I had to get up or else I couldn't think straight." Again she frowned and again she sighed, searching my face for an answer to a question she had not asked. "I'm still worried about him, Ben."_

"_About…Riley?" She nodded. "Why? I thought he was closer to his normal self this past week than ever." But apparently not since her mouth contorted into another nervous grimace. _

"_Yeah, I know but—but…Ben, something keeps bothering me, and I just can't put my finger on it." Shaking her head, she rubbed my shoulder on the way back to her seat._

"Ben?"

"Hm?"

"Riley said it would be easier to do if we go hide now and wait until dark when everyone's gone."

"Yeah," I agree. "Sounds fine." After all, it's the only plan we've got.

XXX

We hid, and night began to fall much faster than it needed to. Our plan is haphazard and clueless at best—it reminds me a lot of when, at Ian's suggestion, Abigail and I tried to break Riley out the first time. Flying by the seat of our pants, although a funny expression, is not all that funny in practice.

And the choking silence, too, does little to calm our anxiety. The room is empty like we wanted, but none of us can move. That is, until Abigail gave Riley and I a little shove. We slowly meander back before the impressive golden pillar. Rings of miniature golden Buddha statues dance beneath the idol, which is illuminated from the bottom, the light glistening off what Riley revealed is not emerald but jade.

"Ben," Riley breathes. "I'm all for explaining my circumstances, but I really don't want the world's Buddhist population against me…or any of us."

"He's got a point," Abigail whispers as she puts a hand on my shoulder.

I shrug it off and approach the pillar; I see what they're saying, but this must be done. Riley deserves a life that's more normal than the one he's been forced to live. We haven't come this far to turn around now.

So, despite the resigned sighs and worried gasps from behind me, I hoist myself up and climb to the top, now face to face with the glazed, unseeing stone eyes of the Buddha. Hesitantly I stretch my fingers toward it and carefully brush an adornment on a leg.

All hell breaks loose.

An alarm more grating than anything I even thought possible peals through the air, forcing fingers into ears all around. And unfortunately in the chaos, my instinct overtakes reason and my hands that were tethering me to the pillar release their hold to protect my suffering eardrums—and I fall backwards toward the multitude of smaller relics on the floor—

"Oof!" comes the muffled grunt under me. "Ben, cut back on the chocolate-chip muffins…you're suffocating me."

Instantly I roll over; Riley had rushed forward to catch my fall. I lower a hand to pull him up, but one of his shirt sleeves catches on a small spire of a nearby artifact, ripping to reveal the web of scars across his arm.

"Thanks," he grunts as he tries to mend the sleeve.

"No, thank you." In that brief moment of distraction, I almost forgot about the still-ringing alarm.

"Ben!" Abigail shouts over the din. "We have to get out of—"

And all falls silent, the last of the earsplitting noise echoing to nothing and cutting short Abigail's train of thought. We stand rigid and confused, staring at each other and the surrounding temple. Despite the sudden calm, the tension in our bones does not recede; as many adventure films have said, "it's quiet…_too_ quiet…" I open my mouth to say something when another sound reaches our ears: the soft clicking of many pairs of feet.

Even in the dim twilight, it quickly becomes clear who has come to join us. A wide arc of bare-chested men, all armed with long, polished rods surrounds where we stand—there seem to be about two of them for every one of us.

"Oh my god," Riley whimpers quietly through his teeth. "It's attack of the cliché ninjas…"

"Ben…" Abigail breathes fearfully with a tug on my shirt sleeve. "_Ben_…"

But all they do is stare, wondering maybe who will make the first move. After a minute or so, the center man's eyes flicker to each of his minions, who nod stiffly.

With rods poised they rush forward, and we scatter—Riley left, Abigail right, and me to the middle.

I try to keep an eye out on them, amidst the violently twirling wood and flying limbs heading my way. Avoiding these guys is no simple matter: in the time it takes me to run three steps, I get bludgeoned five times in the chest and one on the shinbone. Once, I even trip and tumble into one of the ninjas (for lack of a better term); he falls, somehow incapacitated, to the floor. In a brief moment I cast a glance over by Abigail—she grabs a hold of the advancing man's stick and promptly knees him someplace painful. Worry for her is thankfully becoming less intense.

But Riley—a terrified yelp of desperation sounds from my left…he's beleaguered by two taunting men who are circling around him. I sprint toward him, only to see one of the men smack him in the face with his pole, the other following up with a high kick under his chin. Riley's head snaps back with a sickening crack as he flies backward to the ground. Their work seemingly accomplished, the men leave him, somehow missing me.

"Riley…"

"Ow…"

"You all right?" I pull him up by the shoulder, his hands rubbing the sides of his neck.

"Yeah…" The area on his cheek is already turning purple, and one lens of his glasses has a thin crack. "Wait…how's Abigail fending off five ninjas?"

Oh no.

We both whip around to see a ring of the men, but each time one tries to get closer in, he is smacked backwards—but there's something bizarre about it. Abigail's only one person, so how can there be two different points of repelling—

One man stumbles back, giving a clear view in the circle; Abigail's there, and also…Caroline?

"Whoa. No…bad, very bad…holy crap in a handbag, no way!" Riley scrambles up and begins to sprint toward them, me following close behind. Only one thought is running through my head: how the hell did she get here?

As soon as Riley throws himself into the throng, it disperses, becoming less compact. I see his hand latch onto her forearm and pull her from a pair of the men. Running up a few seconds later, I only hear the last bit of what he says.

"—are you _crazy_, Caroline?"

Like a spring, the mob of them compresses again, encircling us all so that our backs are pressed against each other. We hold up our already-bruised arms as shields against the barrage of wood, and still Riley and Caroline shout at each other over the noise of the surrounding enemy.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I just couldn't stand not knowing, so I struck a deal with a guy at the airport who had a private jet!"

"Why did you come? _Why_?" His voice cracks with the strain I glimpse in his eyes.

"I want to help—"

"But this is just too dangerous, and I—I…" He pauses to gasp. "I can't _lose_ you!"

Abigail and I momentarily distracted but still holding up our shielding arms, turn our heads and watch as Caroline's face goes blank, blinking a few times. "Riley—"

She's cut off—his grasp still glued on her arm, he yanks her close, holding her with his other hand, and kisses her passionately. Although it seems she was originally taken by surprise, Caroline soon responds just as—if not more—strongly.

And amazingly enough, the whirlwind of poles and bruises ceases; the men stop, confused, and back up, watching the two reconciled lovers with restrained perplexity.

Instinctively my own hand finds Abigail's, and our fingers intertwine as I wipe the dirt from a scratch across her cheek. Breathing heavily, she takes the opportunity to lean her head on my arm.

This is our chance.

With a quick tap on his shoulder, I hiss his name and they break apart, both red in the face. Riley forms his mouth into a realizing "o" and…we all run for it—desperately, wildly, flinging the temple doors open, sprinting into the courtyard and out of the Grand Palace complex and into the busy streetlight-lined Bangkok roads. We knock so many people out of our way in a futile attempt to evade those skilled, agile masters of the martial arts—

"Are they following us?" Caroline cries, and she and Riley pause to gaze behind. Abigail and I keep on, our momentum preventing us from making a sudden stop.

There is no one behind us. But there are shadows dancing along the rooftops.

Finally Abigail and I come to a stop and glance back at them. "Riley!" I call; a shadow has frozen in its menacing waltz, and the two of them are just standing there.

"All right, all right," he calls back, his hand still in Caroline's…he begins to move before she realizes it, being a sudden movement—and then…

She collapses, and the shadow flits back into the darkness.

"Abigail, oh my god…"

"What? What happened?"

I push past the crowds, some of whom have stopped to stare at the spot where I last saw Riley and Caroline; all the way Abigail sputters confused strings of words. My God, anything but the worst, _please_…

We arrive, and I realize with an anguished stab my plea was too late.

Caroline lies on the cobblestone walkway, supported by a shaking, shivering Riley; a dark stain is spreading on her yellow shirt.

Abigail gasping, steps back and beings muttering to herself. This can't…this can't be happening. Numb, I fall onto my knees beside them and place a hand on Riley's shoulder—he shrugs it off roughly.

"Caroline…" he says, voice shaking like his body.

Her long, slender fingers gradually reach up and get a tentative hold on his. "Riley…it…" she says; its weakness fills my heart with pity and grief. "…it hurts…you can make it stop, can't you?"

Rivers flowing from his eyes, he says nothing, only moving his head with something between a shake and a nod, confused.

"Do…one thing for me, OK?" Taking a shuddering breath, she blinks furiously and grasps his fingers harder. "You find the assholes who ruined your life, and make them regret it!" She has to pause for a longer time given the effort it took to say the last sentence. "I'm sorry…for everything…love you." Her grip slacks, her muscles relax—and Caroline Essex moves no more.

Time begins to crawl by, and the crowd inches past slowly like they're underwater, not wanting to intrude on our personal suffering and loss. The only people who remain at normal time are Riley and us, and I can barely stand to watch him—his red eyes glued shut against the deluge of sorrow pouring from his face, his arms clutched against the limp form that he loved and finally reconciled with after years and years. I look behind me; Abigail is crying as well, and when I reach to touch my own face, my fingers come away glistening. Shouldn't I have already woken up by now? Why aren't I sitting in my bed days from now, finding her alive and well?

"Hello," breaths an accented voice from behind me. We all gaze frantically around, but no one can place the source—it seems to lurk in the shadows. "I'm so…erm, _sorry_…my bullet missed the intended target." It pauses, seeming to glorify in the animosity and panic it's creating. "Ah…always so bemused…"

"What do you want?" Riley finally cries, glaring from his eyes and his words.

"It's not what _I_ want…" Again a pause—get to the damn point, already. "If you wish to know why this…all this…has happened, talk to Peter Sadusky."

And like a wisp of smoke, it vanishes, leaving us, already numb, to contend with another shot at what knowledge we thought we can trust.

XXX

Talk of Sadusky's involvement stayed to a minimum, or not at all. Nor does the mysterious sniper come up in conversation—there is no conversation, only grief and sorrow and anguish manifesting themselves in silence and pointed stares at nothing in particular. Riley's blue and bloodshot eyes remain fixed on a high point on the opposite wall, and what he's trying to see I have no clue. Maybe he's just trying to forget.

"Ben," Abigail says from the adjoining office. "This isn't going well. Could you…?" She motions to Riley and the door. For the past ten minutes she has been attempting to convince this Thai funeral director to help us transport Caroline's body back home. This isn't something he needs to hear, especially if it gets heated. "Thanks," she whispers, closing the door.

"Come on, Riley. Let's get some fresh air." No response—I try nudging him. "Riley…please? The river's right outside. What did you say the name is?"

"The…Chao Phraya," he mumbles with eyes now cast down.

"I'm sure it's pretty at night."

Sighing, he gets up slowly, like he's physically shouldering the weight and burden of his torrential emotions, and nods. That dead look is creeping back into his eyes—I can't let that happen again. We have to get through this, Riley, I urge mentally. We can do this. We're here, we care. As we walk, I squeeze him on the shoulder but he yet again shrugs it off.

Despite being a bit late at night, the river is lined by more people than I anticipated. There also seem to be small, candlelit boats made of leaves and flowers floating in the water; they catch Riley's eye and he stares, transfixed.

"Do you know what they're doing?" I ask.

He ignores me and instead ambles to the shore where an old Thai man hands him a large banana leaf. Through the language barrier, the old man begins helping him fold the leaf in intricate ways, adding more leaves when needed. It's captivating, watching them—the old man's enthusiastic sign language against Riley's numb but determined, forced action.

"Um, excuse me? I don't mean to be forward, but you seem confused." Getting out of my daze, I look to my right and see a young man with a slight resemblance to Riley: tall, pale, dark hair, with striking blue eyes…and thankfully English-speaking.

"Yeah," I sigh, scratching my head. "What is this…?" As my voice falters, I motion to the boats.

"It's Loy Krathong," the man says. "Every November, the Thai make these boats and float them in the river as a tribute to the river spirits. Oh wow, I didn't introduce myself, did I? I'm Jeremy Olsen," he says, outstretching his hand.

"Ben Gates," I reply.

"Wait…you're that guy with the treasure—"

"Mhm…" I agree absently with a glance at Riley.

"And him!" Jeremy says upon noticing said glance. "He's that other guy—"

"Mhm." This guy is way too cheerful for me to handle at the moment. "I don't mean to be rude, but I have to go check on my friend…he's not doing too well…"

"Oh—sorry! Yeah, go ahead. Nice to meet you." And with a spring in his step that seems all too foreign to my senses, Jeremy makes his way over to what looks like his family—a blonde girl about his age and an older woman with her hair in a bun. They all look so happy, and with a piercing sorrow I realize, watching Jeremy peck the girl on the cheek, that Riley will never know such innocent contentment.

"That's a nice boat," I call over to him. "Can I see?" Slowly I walk over to him. Although clumsily constructed, it _is_ nice, and a couple of candles have been secured in the center. The old man taps him on the shoulder and points to a small table of flowers: white, red, purple, pink—and a lone yellow. With trembling fingers Riley picks up the lonely flowe and tenderly places it in his boat. After staring at it for a moment, he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a small golden ring.

_We never really did break it off formally. You can have your stupid ring back._ Her voice echoes in my ears so loudly I almost thought she was actually there.

Riley carefully slides the ring as far as it will go on the tallest candle and motions for the old man to light them. The flames gleam off the edges of the once-abandoned circle of metal as he plops the boat in the river. Watching it the entire time, he backs up until he's beside me. It seems that there's more than one type of spirit being paid tribute tonight.

Suddenly I'm aware of him crying and I put an arm around him; this time, he doesn't shrug it off. We stand there together and watch the progress of his boat until it gets lost in the sea of others, and all the while he lets his silent tears fall to the ground and his head fall to my shoulder.

"Let's go back and check on Abigail, OK?" I say after a long while; he finally meets my gaze and nods, a combination of grief and thanks shimmering in his eyes.

XXX

**There are probably a lot of questions floating through your head right now. I'm terribly sorry that they aren't answered yet.**

**As a note—I didn't mean to seem cruel with what happened to Caroline. So please don't hate me. There was a point to it; I don't enjoy the killing of OC's or any character, but…yeah. (sweatdrop)**

**Please review. **


	18. Chapter 18

**We need sort of a low-key chapter after that doozy. (sigh) Don't worry—I miss Caroline too. In later chapters, I'll want to have her comment somewhere and I have to go, "Wait…hold on…" (sigh again)**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimed! Also, I apologize for any inaccuracies in certain behavior in this chapter. It's not something I'm familiar with. (Just as a note.)**

**_Chapter 18_**

One week; seven days; a hundred and sixty-eight hours have passed. In retrospect, one week is not all that long compared to the great expanse of time; but when each second inches past, when each hour could fit a million lifetimes, when each day stretches to eternity, a week seems like enough time for anything and everything to occur. Tension filling the air around us, a week becomes much more—the birth and death of a hundred universes could fill the void.

At least, that's the way this past week has felt to me. Each day is full of a routine of simplicity, patient worry: I get up, fix some toast, and sit in the living room until lunch, staring into the adjoining hallway. After lunch, it's the same, and after dinner too, but not a soul darkens the doorway while I sit. And then at precisely eleven forty-five Abigail forcibly drags me to bed. But I don't sleep for a while—my ears hark for the slightest noise, a creaking floorboard, the opening of drawers. Finally I hear something. The fridge door suctions open, and items are shuffled around loudly; the movement ceases and quiet clinking follows. The squeaky pantry door is thrown open as well, and closed.

One-thirteen—right on time. It's the only time he emerges from his lonely room, to grab this past-midnight meal. What he takes I'm not always sure: I can usually spot the absent box of food in the morning, but our fridge is such a labyrinth no one can be certain what's back there. But it sounds like glass…Snapple is still served in glass, right? He's a big fan of lemonade…that's probably what it is…right?

Restless and unable to fall asleep like I usually do, I cautiously climb from bed and back to my couch-side vigil. I note with a mental sigh the collection of dust on his Super Nintendo; has it really been such a relatively short time since that night, when all he had to complain about was Falco's reprogrammed betrayal? It seems like a different life, an alternate reality, where things actually turned in our favor once in a while. Where is that Post-It note doodle of him and the giant attack-bagel? Where is the casual reminder to add a specific kind of paprika to my curry? Where is his amused tone at the mention of my parent's secret-stitching trip? Gone, vanished, sucked away by the infernal, godforsaken arrest warrant from the hand of Peter Sadusky—

Sadusky. The name, which has been shoved aside for the past week, surfaces and makes my blood boil, my face hot, toes curl, and muscles tense with suppressed rage.

_It bothers me too, Ben_.

No it didn't, you goddamn liar. He's been playing games with us the whole time…the whole time…

And my head snaps back up, two hours suddenly stolen by sleep, and another body is dragging his feet, halfway stumbling to the couch and falling into the seat beside me. An open laptop is held precariously in his hands.

"Riley…?"

"Ugh…" he sighs, slapping the side of the screen. "It won' turn on…!"

I'm not really sure what to make of this: Riley having issues with computers? Please direct me to the portal out of this different dimension; it's freaking me out and sending worry levels to an all-time high. "Riley?"

"Oh…" he says with dawning realization. "Izzat you, Ben?"

"Uh-huh…" Yeah, something's not right.

"M'laptop's brok'n," he says quickly. "I'm tellin' it t'turn on 'n it won'…"

My eyes now adjusted to the dim light, I can see his eyes are slightly bloodshot, but his face is dry and unswollen. Not good—I think my fears have been confirmed. "What did you get out of the fridge a couple of hours ago?"

"Nothin'."

"Uh-huh, _right_," I persist sarcastically. "What did you get out of the fridge, Riley?"

"Ben, I was thirsty…n'…" He pauses, sighs, and goes back to his crude whacks. Time to go see for myself what's in the back of the fridge.

"You stay _right_…_here_," I say, getting up. After moving aside month-old leftovers of Abigail's pot roast (and tossing it in the garbage…no one's going to eat it after all this time), lo and behold—a few long rows of green glass bottles line the back. Beer…he's completely drunk.

"Be-en!"

"Yeah?" I poke my head in the door frame.

"Look!" Like a small child, he shoves the laptop under my nose, where I see the ridiculous tacky Hawaiian bobble-girl again attached near the keyboard. That thing hasn't seen daylight since the Charlotte incident. "Car'line gave it t'me…sh'said we'd go t'Hawaii 'ventually…I think it looks like her kinda. I should ask'r what sh'thinks t'morrow…"

Now fully in the living room, I have no place to hide my instinct reaction: a long sigh, full of what sounds like the shock, worry and pity I wanted to keep hidden issues from behind the hand covering my mouth. Has he really been getting so wasted that he can't remember she's…gone? But he seems so awake and relatively alert—

"Wanna energy drink?"

Oh. Well. That explains a lot. After he gets up from crashing from the caffeine rush, I bet there's only a span of about half an hour when the hangover and memories can hurt him. This is _not_ optimal. "C'mon, Riley, you're coming with me."

"But—"

"Shh." Placing his laptop on the coffee table, I grab his hand and lead him (feeling like the father of a toddler) to my room. "Abigail," I whisper.

"…hm?" Her eyelids flutter open and instantly show signs of alert upon seeing Riley. "Wh-what's wrong?" Hastily she sits up.

"Ah…well…Riley, he's—how do I say this?" By the look she's giving me, I think "quickly" works well here. "I have an explanation for why he's been ignoring us when you go knock on his door…and, uh…all of _this_," I say, motioning to the unbalanced Riley, who's clutching my shoulder.

"And…what is 'this'?"

I sigh, for what seems like the millionth time since Day One. "He's drunk, Abigail—and has been for the past couple days, I think." All she can do is stare as her eyes grow wide. "We need to have him stay in here to break the trend."

"Y'know, Ben," she sighs, a corner of her mouth twitching. "My mother told me never to sleep with drunk men."

"Abigail—"

"Kidding, I'm kidding!" she chuckles, then becoming serious. "If it's for his own good, then I'm fine with it. OK, Riley. You're in the middle."

Getting him over to the bed in one piece was no easy feat, but we manage…somehow. After he's settled, I crawl in beside him. "Night, Riley," I say.

"Yeah, Riley, good night, and don't try to get up I the middle of the night," Abigail adds. "We're…or at least _I'm_ a light sleeper." She turns over and all is silent for a few serene moments before he sighs peacefully.

"I love you guys…" And within seconds his voice fades to a quiet snore.

XXX

"Wha…? OK, this is weird…" I feel weight shift beside me, only to thud back onto the bed violently. "AGH."

Oh boy—here comes the hangover. I wrench my eyes open, seeing a first blurry form of Riley with his hands plastered over his forehead. Once the picture comes into focus, his expression of severe pain also becomes clear.

"Riley—" Abigail starts.

"Gah…please don't talk so loud!"

"I'm not—"

"Whisper then. My head's about to explode…"

Instead she goes over to the bathroom, returning with an orange plastic pill bottle. Two tablets bounce onto his chest. "Take those," she stage whispers. "And then get back to us."

Only now do I realize what must be going through his mind—if you wake up in a different bed with a killer hangover, what are you _supposed _to think? Nice planning, Ben.

"You feel sick or anything?" I venture, but he immediately shakes his head and clutches it tighter. "And don't fret," I add. "Whatever's going through your mind about this current situation…it's fine. Nothing happened, OK?"

"Good…" he moans. "That's the last thing any of us needs right now." Seriously.

Maybe this headache is just too painful, but he almost seems…normal, like he's forgotten about…her. That would be very unlikely; he's probably just distracted.

"God…" he sighs with an agonized grimace. "What would she think of me?" Or not—even intense physical pain cannot keep memories at bay.

"Um…" Geez, what do you say to something like that? "Who?"

"You know 'who'…and I'm not—gah, my head _kills_—talking about that Voldiesnort guy that you go off on sometimes."

"Well, you butchered the name, but that's beside the point," I say hurriedly, and thankfully he chuckles, albeit briefly. I notice the painkillers Abigail gave him are gone.

"But…" He sits up, and looks at me through squinted eyes. "It's weird…I don't know how to explain it. I've cried…I've tried…well, what I assume is drinking it away for…uh…however long—"

"A week."

Like someone has just pressed pause, he opens his mouth, but freezes, eyes darting about confusedly, before continuing. "Right, right…but…I'm still _so_ upset and I frickin' can't do anything about it!" He pauses, and I remain silent, allowing him to talk, vent when he's ready; I do sit down beside him. But after a while he still says nothing.

"You know…that last bit you just said is like…well, how I felt after you were arrested…clueless, lost, no idea why it happened." I remember when I almost completely lost it and ended up at the Lincoln Memorial—but I have to suppress the memory. A certain agent showed up, an agent that I do not want crossing my mind.

In my reverie, I hardly notice that Riley got up until I hear ruffling of papers from the bookshelf outside the door. (Guess those pills worked fast.) He brings in a wrinkly piece of paper, a computer printout with a great deal of the first part highlighted bright blue. "I found this on the internet one night right after you broke me out…it was a speech or something…"

Leaving out the few words his highlighter has skipped over, I begin to read:

"_This is a strange day—for all of us. Most of you know that today marks my return…after months…Now…I am back. But I can't help feeling how strange this day is—especially because I want to ignore my absence, and I want to pretend everyone has forgotten the reason for it._

"_But we can't do that. We can't ignore what has happened. We can rise above it; we can live through it; but we can't ignore it."_

The original text is about something completely different, but I can still understand why he would bother to print it out—this anonymous speaker has spoken very applicable words.

"I'm going tomorrow," he says quietly. "To the FBI. I'm going to walk in and up to Sadusky and inquire about what the hell has been going on, 'cause I'm sick of not knowing."

Risky, but worth it in my opinion. "Count me in, and Abigail too. I'm sure she'd love to accompany us."

At first, he opens his mouth in protest, but closes it quickly, turning it into a fleeting grin. "Thanks…hopefully things will make more sense after this crazy little escapade…"

XXX

**Yes, this was a shorter chapter…sorry. But the next one's the chapter that is going to try and make sense of everything, so…yeah. (grins)**

**Sorry for the long update—quite literally right after I posted chapter 17, I came down with some awful bug that made me miss one more day of school than I had anticipated after this band trip, and since it's right before the dreaded AP exams, I drowned in make-up work. But I'll try and get 19 up before all that starts, 'cause then my brain will be nonfunctioning. (sigh)**

**Please review. **


	19. Chapter 19

**Here you go, the chapter of "let's find out what's been going on, shall we?" **

**I always seem to forget to mention the source of quotes in the actual chapter they're in for some reason…last chapter was no exception. That speech Riley printed out was a sermon by James van Tholen. Just in case you were curious or happened to be a lawyer.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. **

**_Chapter 19_**

Never before has the nondescript building seemed so impressively imposing—it looms before us as we stand among the rows of trees nearby, every so often glancing at the charcoal-colored sign that reads, "J. Edgar Hoover Federal Bureau of Investigation Building." People bustle about our frozen forms like a river flowing around a couple well-placed rocks.

"Do you still think we're one step short of crazy?" Riley asks suddenly, looking up at me. "Or is that 'one step' getting smaller by the second?" His blue eyes blink a couple times, his head tilting slightly.

"You tell me." I'm not sure what to make of his question at first, but it does get me thinking. Over what feels like the past eternity, we've attracted more trouble and danger and strife than any _normal_ people should, and it's just for simply existing it seems. Ben Gates the treasure hunter can't go a year without getting involved in a fatal adventure and dragging others down with him.

Shaking his head, Riley says, "Let's get this over with…" and moves towards the doors, the jaws of the enemy. I follow, and Abigail does so as well, but hesitantly. She's muttering to herself in German; I haven't heard her do that in a long time.

Resolutely, he walks straight up to the front desk, a huge comical sort of grin splashed across his face and sighs contentedly. "Hello," he says to the guard. "Is it all right if my friends and I go up to see Peter Sadusky? Tell him it's Riley Poole, and I've just been _dying_ to speak with him for quite a while."

The guard, seemingly unsure how to act under this bizarre cheer, nods stiffly. "Just a moment." He turns to the side and begins to murmur into some hidden communication device. "Follow me."

I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this that obviously isn't being shared by Abigail _or_ Riley. Of course, I can see why I would be the only one worrying, as I'm the only one who's ever been to Sadusky's office. All I know is that we're not going anywhere near there—something's amiss, like Abigail pointed out…was it only a few weeks ago?

"In here." The guard has lead us to a door, labeled "conference room." Just what I dreaded—this isn't going to be simple at all.

As soon as we open the door, my suspicions are confirmed; we enter into a commodious room with a large square table, around which sits what look like high-ranking executive agents in matching business suits. The side we're closest to is devoid of people, having only three empty chairs. I also take note an unfilled seat on the right side. Nervously we sit, the chairs making unnecessarily loud noises in the silence.

"So," says a balding man directly across from us, probably the head from the others' reactions. "Good day to you, Dr. Chase, Mr. Gates…Mr. McLaughlin." Riley fidgets uncomfortably next to me. "I'm sure you're all wondering why—"

Suddenly the door flies open behind us. "Sorry I'm late…I was sending a fax and Michaels told me you had called a meeting—"

"_Sit down_, Peter," the balding man sighs, Sadusky hurrying to the empty seat. "Do not forget, as you have a tendency to—although you may have authority in the field, while you are in this room you answer to us. Listen closely: you'll probably be enlightened as well."

Sadusky's gaze wanders around, confused, for a moment, trying to figure out what's going on, until it finally settles on us. His and my eyes lock, and before hatred has enough time to bubble to dangerous levels, I look away.

"As I was saying, you all are probably wondering why this is such a big meeting," the man continues. "Well, we've decided that we've kept you in the dark long enough."

And so a sort of staring contest begins—all of the agents against the three of us. But Sadusky is staring not at us, but at the balding man, brow furrowed in contemplation. Still he remains silent, but not for long.

"What are you talking about, Agent Ingram? Keeping them in the dark?" He pauses, seemingly to get his emotions into words. "What else is there to all this?"

"Sadusky," Ingram says dangerously. "Hold your tongue and you might find out." Silence again, and Riley only fidgets more. Abigail places a hand on his shoulder. "So. Back to what I was saying…

"You three were recently in Bangkok, correct?" Slowly, one by one, each of us nods. "We all know you were there for the treasure. Yeah, we know about it. We also happen to have a very vested interest in a certain part of it. And that is why you are here. But allow me to tell your story…with the sides you didn't even know you had." Ingram gets to his feet gradually, others around him adjusting their seating so he has room to pace some.

"The CIA, as you would know, Riley, had information on said treasure you were seeking; and, as I've said, we here in the FBI needed part of it. However, we could not act on the information until it was public, but if we hacked in and made the leak ourselves, it could be Watergate all over again. So—"

"So you got someone else to do it for you," Riley spits bitterly, with more contempt and hate than I have ever heard in his voice and hope never to hear again.

"Yes," he agrees without skipping a beat. "We did our research on possible candidates for our evolving scheme…and we found you, Riley: a prodigy, able to hack into most anything before entering high school. And what was even more convenient was that you had no ties to family. None.

"Why?" Ingram asks rhetorically, pacing and gesticulating grandly. "Because Mr. Riley McLaughlin here was a ward of the state of Washington: no permanent guardians. His mother put him up for adoption without even seeing him, we discovered, since he would have been a reminder—a painful one—of the act that was forced upon her that inadvertently created him."

Riley isn't even looking at Ingram and the others anymore; his head is bowed, his eyes shut, his elbow on the table with forehead in hand. His other hand is balled into a fist.

"Well," he continues. "If something went wrong, no matter—less people would miss him. So we waited, and the opportunity presented itself when you went to Riyadh. You know what happened—six months later, the information's public and you're back in the States. Thank us that Ahmed didn't kill you.

"But we realized that we as the FBI could not go skipping off to Thailand ourselves. So we had been doing more research during that lull period…on you, Mr. Gates, and your passion for treasure hunting…we found how you worked, how you thought—your idealism and conviction. We needed you to be involved as well, but you were so wrapped up in that Templar nonsense.

"We devised a plan that, in the end, would help you and us. In revealing Riley's involvement upon his return (and saying he leaked security secrets so the public would be incensed), we forced him into hiding so that he might later return to society under a new name, which he did, and soon got a job with George Hebrews. We let him get settled, and then I had Agent Dawes anonymously contact you, Ben, and recommend that office to you for all your computer assistant needs."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Abigail's head snap in my direction and back again, suddenly in the middle of a realization. I don't look over—my mind is consumed with Ingram's words.

"Hebrews was paid off not to do a background check on Riley…and also to immediately recommend him for hire to someone who matched Ben's description. So along he came, and off they went. Obviously the Templar treasure was found, and after that we still let more time pass. We needed the two of you to become close, and that little side trip to Cibola didn't hurt.

"So we sent the oblivious Peter here"—he motions to Sadusky—"to go 'find' you, Riley, after things had returned to normal. Based off our research, Ben would go to great lengths to find out as much as he could about the mysteries of his friend's past and, upon the great revelation, find the beloved treasure to prove the technical innocence. We guessed correctly. You all went globetrotting for information, surprised you could because it seemed the whole world was after you. So why didn't we reveal your alias, Riley? You getting arrested would only be an unnecessary obstacle in our plan."

Finally—all we never knew, never saw, never realized lays bear before us. I'm still reeling, but Riley…

"Oh yeah?" he shouts, jumping to his feet violently. "Did your wonderful plan include the slaying of an innocent person? Did the name 'Caroline Essex' ever come up in your talks? She was picked off by a sniper in the streets of Bangkok, who told me to talk to him!" Shaking, he points a finger at a wide-eyed Sadusky.

"R-Riley…" he stammers. "I was handed a sealed package a few weeks ago and told to address it to Thailand with my return label. I never opened it…I didn't know, honest—" He stops suddenly as if someone had cut him off, but no one had. The power of Riley's stare was enough.

"I'm so sorry Assir missed," Ingram says with clearly false sympathy. "He has off days in his shooting. But you should be thankful—he was supposed to be aiming for you."

"What?"

"Now that the entrance to the treasure chamber has been found, we don't need you anymore. Ben can still be useful, but you've done your part. After all, once you find the treasure—your proof of this whole thing—it would have been better if there was no testimony against us."

Throughout this whole last bit, I've been keeping my eyes on Sadusky while my ears tune in to the argument. No longer do negative emotions surface when I look at him—hand covering his mouth, eyes full of worry and shame. He's probably been almost as clueless as we have.

"So, what?" Riley says. "Are you going to kill us when we leave here?"

"No."

"Then why have you told us all this?" As Riley's point sinks in, so does a severe bout of fear.

"You deserve to know your story, Riley, and…as much as we hate to admit it, the second chance given to you by that bullet that missed. But we still hold the crucial pieces to the whole thing." Ingram smiles a toothy grin, grotesque with the satisfaction from a twisted mind's plot. "If you know what's good for you, you'll find the treasure." He nods, implicitly telling us to get going, which we waste no time in doing.

All the way back down to the front doors, we feel so overwhelmed and saturated with information that we take much longer to get to our destination. Twice, Abigail and I have to hold Riley back from dashing back up to probably try and punch Ingram in the face, but at last we reach outdoors and the sun and head straight for that line of trees nearby.

Riley leans a hand against one of the skinny trees and breathes heavily, eyes staring at nothing. "My life was a set-up," he murmurs over and over again, and the phrase creeps into my mind.

I was meant to meet Riley; it hadn't been chance—it wasn't chance that I became friends with such a loyal, good, yet internally tortured person. He and I only found each other because some secret council, with Ingram at the head, decided it was expedient for their needs. This emotion coursing through me cannot be placed, a juxtaposition of every possible feeling that has, in turn, created a completely new one.

"Um…"

Our heads all turn to the source of the interruption, facing us about two yards away.

"What do you want, Sadusky?" Abigail says menacingly.

The agent looks more sheepish and ashamed than I ever thought possible for him. "I…just came over here to, uh…tell you I resigned from the Bureau five minutes ago." Silence—the other two, like myself, are too stunned for words. "Why are you all staring at me like that?"

"Why'd you quit right in the middle of your wondrous scheme?" Abigail says with the same dislike in her voice.

"I…I was a pawn," he says, lowering his head briefly. "And in all honesty: do you think I would have stayed if I had known what was going on? I'm not a corrupt, heartless bastard like Nathaniel Ingram." He pauses, sighing, waiting for us to say something. "And…I want to fix the wrongs I unknowingly contributed to. I've overheard important information from Ingram to his right-hand man himself. I want to help you."

Despite Abigail's angry muttering and the shaking of her head, Riley nods, and I do as well. "Fine," Riley says. "I trust you. We need all the help we can get."

X

"_Nothing, of course, begins at the time you think it did."_

_-Lillian Hellman_

XXX

**If you are confused or need clarification on any of this, don't hesitate to ask me. I'd hate for anyone to not understand what was revealed—it's pretty important, after all.**

**Please review. **


	20. Chapter 20

**Hello! Sorry for the long update…but things should be faster now that two-thirds of my horrendous AP exams are out of the way. (Thank God.) Though I am grateful to NT because it actually helped me on my US history one. Mwahaha…**

**PS: Remember, Ingram and all them are the FFBI (Fictional FBI). I'm not voicing any conspiracy theories or anything...it's just the story. **

**Disclaimer: I know it and you know it: I don't own these characters. Kapeesh?**

**_Chapter 20_**

Before we left for the FBI, I thought that the information we would receive could only help Riley's state of mind. Confusion, I deduced, was only making his grief worse. Being enlightened, if only slightly, would relieve some burden.

I have never been so wrong.

Unlike in the past few weeks, there have been no tears, no drunken stupors, no week-long disappearances. Absent instead are words altogether—he sits back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, eating only when Abigail threatens to shove a sandwich down his throat or when I look like I'm about to toss a Jello cup over to him.

But even then, he seems lost in his thoughts, eyes open but not seeing what's in front of them—only visions of things past, not really there. The day Sadusky offered to prepare lunch, he made Riley's absolute least favorite sandwich—tuna fish—by accident, and Riley didn't even notice. Any other day, he would have complained until the cows came home, and we don't own a single cow. Abigail would probably beg to differ; based off her actions toward our new addition, I bet she'd just love to ship Sadusky off to McDonald's to get made into a double cheeseburger. But Riley wants him to help, so she keeps her comments to herself.

"How's he doing?" I've been standing in the doorway to the living room for quite a while, so Sadusky's sudden presence almost makes me jump.

"I don't know," I sigh. "He doesn't want to open up at all."

"You've tried?"

"Of course. The last time…for an hour. He wouldn't even look at me."

He strokes his chin. "D'you think he's just trying to make some sense out of the past six years? Think, Ben: he dyes his hair, changes his name to escape from his past…to erase everything connecting him to those memories. But now…everything he's held on to that gave him a sense of pride and belonging is suddenly lumped together with the parts he's been trying to suppress…even you, Ben."

I must look rather dumbfounded, because he adds, "I was a psychoanalyst before I was promoted to the field."

"Oh." Hm…no wonder he was able to read us so well those times before. Now I don't feel so bad; I'd always thought we'd been doing something wrong or too obviously. "Is there anything we can do for him? I feel so helpless."

"Join the club." They're the first words Riley's spoken since the trip to the FBI, and his sudden speech—for the second time in ten minutes—nearly makes me jump again.

"I'm going to, uh…go," the ex-agent says quietly, returning to the kitchen.

Sitting down next to Riley, I say nothing as he continues to stare up at the ceiling. "Y'know, I thought I was making my own decisions, my own life. But now…I feel like…like my life has been some movie script headed by some faceless director, and I've been forced to do stuff without any idea why. I hate it—I hate feeling like a puppet. I hate feeling used and being shunted aside like this, like they've done…I can't stand it!"

He keeps on talking, venting, but my brain automatically shuts off connection to my ears. All those things he just said he hated, while glaring with frustration at now the facing wall, were things I am very guilty of. Is he dropping a hint, or does he even realize it? Am I just as guilty as Ingram and his cronies? I'd like to think there's a difference between what I've done and what they've done and are still doing, but when you look at it in the generalizations he put it in, is there really a difference?

"…Ben?"

"Yeah?" Something's wrong…his voice become unusually quiet…dangerously so, for Riley especially, who at one point I doubted knew the meaning of the word.

"It's…well…" he sighs, still very soft. "It's scary to think I probably never would have met you had it not been for Ingram and all them, 'cause…I want to hate them for it, and I do…for the most part. But the rest…I'm actually grateful towards them. I can't imagine my life without you or Abigail, but I don't want them getting the credit for it."

The internal conflict, I realize with a sinking feeling, goes far deeper than Sadusky thought. Riley's eyes are now flitting about, reluctant to stay focused on one point for more than a second; with each movement my guilt continues to skyrocket. He was put through all this, this pain and suffering and confusion, because I would do something about it, because I am who I am, because I'm the treasure hunter. If I wasn't a treasure hunter, Shaw would be alive; Ian would be a free man, not tempted by the wrong side of the law; Mitch would not have sought me out and his life would have been spared; Caroline, with her whole life ahead of her, would still be here, with Riley. That's the way it should be, but fate is cruel and laughs in our faces.

"I need to go for a walk," I mumble, getting up and heading out the door before he can say a word.

My jacket purposefully left inside, I walk up the long, gravel driveway and revel in the chilling bite of the late November wind. In one gust, so much can be momentarily blown away—it's just my being and the frigid numbness rubbing my exposed skin raw. Hands are not slammed into pockets, head is not bent away from the wind, but rather held up in the midst of it all as if to say, "What more do you want from me?"

"Hey…Ben?" says Abigail from behind me, but I don't turn around. "Now that Riley's talking again, we were going to start planning going back to Thailand."

"…I'm not going."

"What do you mean you're not going?"

"I mean 'I'm not going,'" I say, finally facing her. "Death follows us everywhere, and each time it…it…first Shaw, then Mitch, now Caroline! How much longer will it be before Sadusky or you or Riley's added to that list? We're not invincible…going back is asking for…horrible things…." Futilely, I try to fumble with my shirt sleeves with frozen hands that move as slowly as an ungreased hinge, and out of the corner of my eye I see her shake her head and walk back inside.

I try to flex my fingers but to no avail—the muscles and bones must be icing over, like the tip of my nose, which no longer has any feeling in it. Gray clouds muting the sun, the dreary environment accentuates the dreary feel inside. As I inspect my stiff digits, a lone minuscule speck of white floats down from the sky and lands on the top of my thumb—it's so cold that the flake doesn't melt right away. Just when it begins to disappear, I hear the door creak open again.

"The world must be coming to an end—rising sea levels, obliterated ozone layer, nuclear war, the whole shebang," Riley says as he steps off the stoop.

"Why's that?"

He approaches me slowly, getting only a foot away, and stares at me, expressionless. "Ben Gates gave up."

"I…" His blank stare seems to disconnect my vocal chords. "I'm not giving up. I'm being smart and thinking before I act."

Still not allowing emotion to cross his face (which, frankly, is starting to become discomfiting), he looks from side to side and back at me. "No offense, but when was the last time both of those coincided?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"You make your best decisions on instinct, not on reasoning. If you just depended on all the facts the world threw at you…well, you wouldn't be you. You believed in the Templar treasure, in the validity of stealing the Declaration, in your great-great-grandfather's innocence…and my technical innocence…because you knew it here"—with a forceful jab, he pokes me in the chest—"not here." He moves his finger to my forehead, flinching probably from the iciness of my skin. "Now, your head may be telling you to get us and bail out, just like your head must have been telling you…"

Finally he lets the expressionless visage go as he screws up his face in thought, eventually speaking in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. "'No Ben! Don't steal the Declaration! You're going to go to jail and shame the family, and Thomas Jefferson's ghost will hate you, and all the tour guides at Monticello and Poplar Forest and all the undergrads at University of Virginia will chase after you with pitchforks and the like for defacing the document!'"

"Um—"

"Not done yet. And then your instinct came upon your panicking reasoning and punched it in the face. And here we are," he says with a grin, motioning like he's showing off what's behind door number one, and I know what's behind door number one. Sadusky told me a while ago.

"Yeah…" I sigh. "But are you sure 'here' is a good place to be?" Momentarily the faces of Shaw, Mitch and Caroline pass before my eyes.

"Ben, we could argue that point for an eternity, but where would that get us? Nowhere. The opportunity to do something about it is waving right in our faces—this is it, Ben, and I'm going whether you guys come or not…I'm going for myself and for any future victims of what I've been through…and for…for _her_, 'cause she told me to rough up these guys and I just can't run anymore!" Pausing to breathe, he continues, "I've made up my mind. What's your instinct telling you?"

If he had asked at any other time, I would have had an answer ready. But not only have my vocal chords been cut off again, but that instinct Riley so fervently admires and believes in…it feels like a whole in my chest, a vacuum sucking all my certainty away into a black hole. Every time I turn to it, only more questions surface.

"Ben," Riley says, most likely noting my lack of response. "Ingram and them wanted us to meet. We ought to make that the worst decision of their lives." I can tell he's trying to hide it, but his mouth tightens like he's suppressing the urge to smile.

"C'mon," he says, clapping me on the shoulder. "Sadusky said he was going to share what he's overheard."

"All right." And the smile breaks across his face finally, full of relief I can't place: relief from what? Me coming inside and not coming down with hypothermia? Him tired of suppressing it? Me finally responding to something he said? The instinct that was turned off comes roaring back as the latter crosses my mind.

In every "adventure," I've always had the answers, known what to do and how to do it—a constant, now a crumbling one, it seems. And it also seems that in his mind, my potential mini-collapse is equivalent to finding out everything he knows is wrong, which unfortunately is not such a foreign feeling to us anymore.

"Are you absolutely positive you want me coming?" I ask as we walk back to the door, feet crunching over the gravel. "Trouble tends to follow me everywhere."

He actually laughs, and it's been so long since that sound has passed through my ears that I almost didn't recognize it. "Trouble follows _me_. I'm the one who's always following you."

XXX

**Gah…short chapter again. Sorry. I just wanted to get it out before my last exam next week, before which the teacher of said class is going to load us with work. Joy. But come twelve-thirty Wednesday, I'll be free…kind of. Oh well.**

**Please review. **


	21. Chapter 21

**May 13****th****: happy birthday to Sadusky-slash-Harvey Keitel. And incidentally, I heard that apparently there was this family of ducks at the White House that the secret service guys had to deal with since the president wasn't there…three guesses who was actually behind it. (coughSaduskycough)**

**Disclaimer: Suing me is a futile effort. And I don't own it anyways, so…yeah. **

**_Chapter 21_**

"So, _Peter_," Abigail says with false cheer. "What is this oh-so-crucial information that you _happened_ to overhear?"

I love Abigail and all, but she's really not helping. One thing I've learned is to not antagonize someone offering you assistance: case in point, Ian. Not that I think Sadusky's going to pull a gun out on us, but still. He was in the FBI.

"I don't have to tell you at all if that's the way you're going to act," he says simply, shutting her up in a hurry.

"Right," he continues. "So…before I expound upon what I've heard, you all need to know who we're dealing with here. Ingram wasn't the only one at that meeting, as you recall." Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a wallet stuffed with small ripped fragments of photographs. "I gathered as many pictures as I could before I had to leave. You all know Nathaniel Ingram; he's the head, been so for about ten years, and no one in my memory has been as…well, ruthless as him. But he honestly has no ability to come up with these plans—the only thing he can do is implement them. All the schemes come from Chester Burr."

A faded color photo apparently torn down the middle spins across the breakfast table to my fingertips. Burr's thin face is lines with dull blond hair, and his aloof, clod eyes make him seem more like an old statue than an actual person.

"There are others," Sadusky continues, flying more pictures at us all and rattling off names: "Arnold Baker, Roy O'Connor, Madeleine Rôcher, Pierro Vasquez, Cameron Yeatts, Max Campbell, Jean-Baptiste Vernay, and of course…Charlie Green."

"What?" Riley says absently, picking the photo of Madeleine Rôcher out of his hair. "You don't have a picture of Charlie to throw at us?"

Sadusky, being the agent that he is, tactfully ignores his comment. "Green is an undercover agent whose face and current alias is known only to Ingram and Burr. They're the top three in this operation, and the most dangerous in terms of what they can have done."

"But what did you hear about the treasure?" I ask.

"Right. They're after…well," he sighs, looking perplexed. "The actual name of the substance is about twelve miles long, but I know it's this…this orb, about the size of a man's fist and pale yellow. It's supposed to be very rare, and unheard of in such quantities, and that's why they want it. They need it for something that's being housed in Area 51."

Abigail's eyes widen, and Riley lets out a low whistle. "Well," he says with dramatic thought. "We would know what was in Area 51 if _somebody_"—he swivels his head in my direction and stares for an awkwardly long time—"had let us peruse the president's book a little longer."

"Not my fault," I say. "And don't roll your eyes, Riley. You know we didn't have time." I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. "And you have no idea what exactly they need this substance for?"

"No," Sadusky says with a shake of the head. "But it would be in our best interests to go on and get it—one to keep it out of their hands, and two to make sure they don't try themselves or…um, 'take us out of the picture' to start the process over. They seemed pretty patient about the whole thing. But whatever Ingram's planning, it's…not good."

Silence ensues, and staring contests, too, with the table the wall, occasionally another person. Sadusky suddenly seems quite intrigued by a painting of some tangerines facing him. To be honest, I've never understood why Abigail likes that picture so much; she doesn't eat citrus all that much, nor is she a fan of the color orange…and I personally don't think anything could be more dull than a bowl of fruit.

"Wait a second…" Riley says slowly. "How do you know that Ingram's really the head of all this? This whole thing is huge enough even with all the holes in our information, so shouldn't the president or somebody be involved somehow?"

"Not necessarily," I say. "You know the Manhattan Project in World War II?"

"Yeah," he nods. "Wasn't it Einstein and some people making the atomic bomb?"

"Yes, though it was much bigger than that—it's been called the 'world's best kept secret' since nobody knew about it despite the sheer number of researchers. Harry Truman himself, who had been vice president for the majority of the war until Roosevelt's death, didn't know about the bomb until a few months before they dropped it on Hiroshima."

"It is very likely that the president's clueless," Abigail agrees. "But you had a good point, Riley."

"Yeah…but," he sighs. "If he is, than that just puts this whole thing on another level. What could they be doing that's so wrong the president can't know about it?"

Silence again, and I feel like I'm drowning, like I'm ten feet over my head—in reality, we're closer to around ten _thousand_ feet over. It's one thing to stop Ian stealing the Declaration, but stopping the FBI from doing whatever they're doing? I need to walk around again.

"And just where do you think you're going?" Riley asks once I get up.

"I just need to think some more."

"It better not have anything to do with you possibly not going, 'cause then I might have to attack you with the rock-hard pillows from the guest bedroom."

I crack a smile despite myself. "Is that a threat?"

"No," he says. "It's a forecast, actually. Now no uncertain thoughts, even though it _is_ written all over your face."

As I walk back to the courtyard and the central fountain, I can't help but think of the last time I escaped to come sit out here—running from confronting the issue of Riley's arrest. And here I am again—running, but from what?

Suddenly, I envy the people like Jeremy Olsen, the people who live normal lives, the people who have normal worries, concerns, distractions, the people who are completely oblivious to the corruption right under their noses. The booming voice of one of my history professors echoes in my ears…we were studying Machiavelli—

"And the world consists of nothing but masses; the few who have no influence when the many feel secure."

I'd say four people constitute a "few." What are we going to do—engage in a pseudo-war against the most powerful police force in the Western Hemisphere? Sure, we've dealt with them before…by running. There's a large difference between that and a confrontation.

"BOO!"

"Jesus, Riley!" I shout.

"Sorry, sorry…" he chuckles as he takes a seat beside me. "You looked so lost in thought…it was just too tempting."

"Was it now…"

"Guess wha-at?" he continues without missing a beat. "Abigail and Sadusky got us fixed up with another plane to Thailand…a private one this time so it'll be harder to track. Apparently some guy she knew from college—Stan, I think his name was—got one together."

Stan…I frown, thinking. "Stan who?"

"No clue. The guy was _also_ apparently some sort of stalker."

"And she went and struck a deal with him?"

Clapping, he says, "Congratulations. You've finally caught on that your girlfriend's completely nuts."

"She's not any more crazy than we are," I add.

"She's crazy enough to date you."

"Yeah, but she can break up with me at any time without warning. You can't really do that with a friendship, so technically—"

"So technically you're calling me insane," Riley finishes with a contemplating frown.

"No…'insane' is such a…_strong_ word…I'm not talking about straitjackets and padded rooms…it's like…" I hold both my hands up, palms facing me, and slam them down a few times on the invisible table before me in frustration.

"What does this"—he repeats my gesture—"mean?"

"Y'know…" I too repeat it. "_This_."

Back and forth we go, performing this odd "I can't find the right word" motion, amusement overshadowing our mild irritation that my historical encyclopedia of a brain doesn't come with a free thesaurus.

"What are you two doing?" Sadusky suddenly calls from the doorway. "Conducting the New York Philharmonic?"

"Ha…no," Riley chuckles briefly. "The English language was just being evasive. Besides, if I was a conducting, I'd have a baton and would have most likely poked Ben in the eye by accident."

"And this happens often?"

"When you sit in the first few rows in front of a slightly-butterfingered band director?" Riley says. "_All_ the time." Oh yeah…he played flute—

Agh. Death of more brain cells. The image just doesn't work, I'm sorry.

"Well…" Sadusky says, unsure how to respond. "Stan's here to pick us up. That is, if you want to go, Ben."

Why does Stan have to be so prompt? I really was counting on having a few more hours of mulling time before confronting this issue…but…hm. Any sane person would not go near that treasure or this issue with a mile-long pole; but since when are we sane? Any normal person would go into hiding; but since when are we normal? Any fainthearted person would give up; but since when are we fainthearted? And that passage rumbles back from the archives of my mind…_"We can rise above it; we can live through it; but we can't ignore it."_

"Yeah," I say, and a wide grin of relief spreads across Riley's face, accompanied by a barely perceptible twist of Sadusky's lips.

I—none of us—can afford to run any longer. There's too much at stake.

XXX

Once Riley, Sadusky, and I arrive back in the foyer, the first thing (or person, rather) that catches my eye is the one chatting away with Abigail.

Stan.

Tall, dirty-blond, gray eyes, and an air of nervousness desperately trying to be overshadowed by one of complete and utter calm—that's Stan. And let me tell you, I'm not liking him much…thinking he's so _cool_ with his private jet…

"Riley, Ben," Abigail says with forced cheer. "This is Stan Grant."

As Riley reaches to shake his hand, I say casually, "Oh! Any relation to President Ulysses S. Grant?"

"Yeah," he starts with a grin. "Actually—"

"He was such an ineffective president, wasn't he?" I chuckle; beside me I can almost feel Riley's eyes slide over in disbelief, and I _do_ feel Abigail's seemingly-playful "please shut up" punch in the arm.

"So!" she says, turning away.

"Crédit Mobilier scandal!" I sing under my breath.

Stan eyes me with an implied glare. "Is he…always like this, Abi?"

"Nah," Riley jumps in—thank God. Abigail looked as if she had a witty, ready-made agreement on hand. "See, Stan…Ben's had this bad cold lately and he _just_ woke up from a nap after taking a tad too much Nyquil, if you know what I mean."

As Stan takes the bait and nods understandingly, Sadusky prods me in the back. "Watergate!" I chirp.

"Pretty sure Watergate was Nixon," Riley says quickly, grabbing some of the bags Abigail seems to have already packed. "But that's OK—he's Nyquiled…the only time that's excusable for Ben Gates to mix up his centuries." Like the parent of a small child who has just done something frighteningly embarrassing, he takes my arm in his free hand and pulls me out the front door before anyone else can say a word.

"And what, may I ask, was that?" he says halfway down the steps. "You're not the jealous type—wait." Actually pausing in his stride, he smiles almost as if he's chiding himself. "Yeah you are!"

"Since when?"

"Three words: Connor the curator."

"Oh. Right."

"But did you really have to make fun of Stan's ancestors?" he laughs; at least I know he's not as livid as…um…a certain someone.

"Hey now…I could've mentioned a number of other things about Grant's presidency and Grantism and the Guilded Age—incidentally, do you know where that term originated—"

"Ben," he says slowly, putting a hand on my shoulder. "Mark Twain. You've told me three times already. And no history montages—you're supposed to be Nyquiled."

I help him load the luggage into the trunk of Stan's Volvo. "'Nyquiled'?"

"Yeah. It's a verb."

"Maybe in the Standard Riley Dictionary."

"Fine. Make fun of my lexicography hobby," he says sarcastically. "I see how it is."

"Hey boys…" Abigail says from behind us—and very suddenly. "You want to get a move on and _not cause any trouble_?" Wow. That is quite the pointed glare.

I barely have time to nod before Stan sticks his head around the corner of the car. "All set?" And still there's that slight vibe of guard against me.

"I think so," Abigail sighs.

"Well then…off to Dulles!"

XXX

**Death to AP English exam, and death to the broken fire alarm that disrupted it for an hour. (It's been a LONG day.)**

**Please review: comments, concerns, the like. You know. **


	22. Chapter 22

**Long-ish chapter for you today! Woohoo!**

**Disclaimer: Disclaimified in a disclaiming sort of manner.**

**_Chapter 22_**

The rest of the escapade in trying to deal with Stan was an utter disaster, involving no less than five quips about President Grant on my part and a couple probably well-deserved bruises on my arm, courtesy of Abigail. But the buck stopped when I took a lame crack at the fifty-dollar bill…and, believe it or not, that pun was _not_ intended.

"So, Ben…" Riley sighs from his chair at the Bangkok hotel room. "How do you suppose we figure out how to get to this chamber?" All his normal sarcastic semblances of cheerfulness vanished upon landing, and understandably so. I guess at home it was easier to suppress the fact that due to some ridiculous law we couldn't get Caroline back to the US and that the grave site he put together is empty; or maybe it was just easier to pretend he wasn't still messed up when he wasn't bombarded by constant reminders. After all, the towering golden pagoda of the Grand Palace is visible from our window—his towering golden nightmare.

But all that aside, I can't answer his question. "That's what we're going to do right now," I sigh, casting a glance towards Abigail and Sadusky.

"We could always go prepared," Sadusky says. "And by 'prepared,' I mean 'armed.' Those ninjas do not sound like my cup of tea."

"No," Abigail says, shaking her head. "That's just asking for trouble—"

"When it already finds us anyway," mutters Riley.

"—this is like when we tried to break Riley out of prison the first time," she continues. "What we attempted didn't work, so we did something new. Remember, Ben? We _learn_ from history."

"In that case…" Riley ponders aloud. "Do they have a preservation room they can move the Emerald Buddha to so we can access this tunnel you've guessed about?"

Preservation room? Hm…I wonder…do they ever clean the idol? Like transporting it _away_ for a thorough one?

"Uh, Ben?" Riley says. "I was just kidding. You don't have to get your thinking face on." After a brief moment when he sees no change in my expression, he says again, "Ben?"

"We're going to need to make some phone calls, gentlemen," I say with a grin.

"And lady," adds Abigail. "But why?"

"I think it's time Mr. Emerald Buddha got a good polishing."

XXX

And, amazingly enough, that stunt worked; Riley didn't have to gripe about a flooding hotel between bites of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but Sadusky did have to pull a few tricks out of his "I'm a psychoanalyst" bag. So off the statue went, after a grand total of seven minutes of the ex-agent's persuasion.

And since it worked, we now find ourselves in a cliché secretive position: thank God for the bushes across from the temple. I know what must be going through Riley's head—"Well now, with all the car chases, ninjas, and bushes, aren't we the typical adventure narrative?" or some other cynical comment.

"Ben," he whispers, shifting aside a few branches so I can see his face. "I'm not so sure about this…" After a quick glance at the lofty building, his eyes briefly slide out of focus, and Abigail puts a hand on his shoulder.

"You know we have to find this treasure," I murmur. "And that cleaning isn't going to take forever."

No response—just a sigh, all these sighs of confused, breaking spirits. We can't let that happen; we have to stay focused on the task at hand…worry about the grand scheme can come later when we're not risking our lives—for the umpteenth time—in some sticky situation.

"We're not going to get any further standing in these bushes," Abigail says.

"Yeah," Riley sighs. "We better get out of here before someone pulls a Monty Python and blows these leafy things up. 'Here we have some treasure hunters who are skilled in the art of not being seen. _KABOOM!_ And now for something completely different.'" With a shake of the head, he steps clumsily over more branches and into the main walk, us following close behind.

Upon entering Wat Phra Keo, Riley's huge base of hidden anxiety smacks me in the face—in the silence, my mind creates for a flashing instant the roar of the siren and the shouts of the adversary and the crack as a foot connected with Riley's neck and his agonized shock upon seeing Caroline. The combined noise momentarily deafens me until my consciousness realizes that was the past, and the present is unearthly devoid of sound.

"Will the alarm go off if the Buddha's not there?" Abigail wonders aloud, looking at each of us.

"No," Sadusky says. "I made sure to get that out of them. But there are people who swing by here every so often, so we better get a move on."

I feel all their eyes on me, urging me back up the ornamental pillar, now sans holy idol, and aversion and dread bubble to the surface. Looking at Riley, though, and his own doubt and trouble and subtle reliance on my mood swings pushes me forward and up.

Indeed my hypothesis is correct. "Hello beautiful," I murmur, running my hand over the inconspicuous latch on the platform. With a tug, the door lifts out of the surface; an audible sigh can be heard from the others below. "Let's go."

The ladder within the pillar is slippery with grime—more than once I hear the panicked slip of a foot on a rung from someone above, usually accompanied by a just as panicked squeal or expletive. As we descend, I realize we're going deep underground. Let me tell you, when my feet hit solid ground, I could have broken into the "Hallelujah" chorus.

"Journey to the center of the earth, anyone?" Riley mutters as he steps off the last rung and takes a look around. Painted on the grand, towering rock face of a wall is a large Buddha and other symbols; years ago it must have been spectacular, but now the work is dotted with spots where the color has chipped off.

"Look." I point beneath the mural. "There's a hallway." The airy, vaulted ceiling gives way to a much shorter one, lined with cobweb-entangled, damp torches crumbling in their holders under the illumination of our flashlights.

"This must be even older than the chamber under Trinity Church," Abigail comments from behind Riley and I.

"Yeah," I say. "See, the fracturing of the wood—"

And the floor disappears beneath us; all I know I falling, the rush of the wind in my ears, Abigail and Sadusky's frantic shouts from safe above and Riley's scream, "_Again with the freaking trapdoors!_" and then—

Another quick, panicked yell from Riley, all the words blending into one: "OhmygodBenlookrocksmove!"

And then there's the cold, icy, splash of silence, and more panic under the water as the weaving of my clothes absorbs the liquid around me. My head breaks the surface with a gasp, and my limbs struggle against what I realize is a current, and my eyes scan the boulder-laden sea for signs of Riley's head.

"Ben!" He's much further down, desperately clinging to a moss-carpeted rock. "Oh my god, get us out of here!"

As I too grab hold of a rock, I shout, "Try to swim over here!"

"No! The current—it's too bad, just like Cibola, and you should know from that experience that _I hate water!_"

I should? I know when we first entered that small room of doom, he spun around anxiously for a minute…but…gah, why does the guilt-meter have to fill up when our lives are once again in peril?

"Please, Ben!" he continues, his eyes squinting shut in fear. "There's this loud roar coming from the other end of the room…it's got to be a huge waterfall or something, and I don't want to fall to my death, I really don't!" Fingers scratching at the rock in an attempt to hold on, he tries to bring his stationary life raft closer into what looks like a fearful bear hug.

My own grip on my rock is slackening due to the moss I'm accidentally pulling up by its precarious roots. "Just stay there, all right? I'm coming…" I let go and the strong undertow tumbles me like a pinball from boulder to boulder until I too am futilely digging my fingernails into a slick rock surface near him.

"Riley!" I shout. "Grab my hand!" All he does is tighten his embrace on the rock and shake his head in fright, and still the rushing water picks at his hold. "Come on…" Ripping his closest arm off the boulder, I use it to pull his entire frame over and hoist us both up on a lower slab jutting out of the water at an odd angle. "You all right?"

For a moment he looks ready to adamantly shake his head, but instead forces a hesitant nod; his shaky hands push soggy, saturated bangs from his vision—from eyes that, if you look close enough, still hold a faint dot of gray. "Please get us out," he says quietly, beginning to shiver slightly.

"Right, right…" The rocks, I notice, form a sort of path of stepping-stones—albeit slippery and dangerous—over to a larger wall…and a ladder, which seems not to reach to the water. "We're going to have to jump over to that ladder. Can you do that or should we wait a minute?"

He holds up one hand and takes a few deep breaths, then nodding. "Sorry…water that comes above my waist bothers me…I almost drowned once as a kid…" Briefly his eyes fall out of focus, presumably having a flashback of when that instance occurred.

"Don't dwell on it now," I say, hand on his shoulder. "That'll make it worse."

"Right." He nods again and readjusts himself so he's sitting on his knees. "So how are we going to make it over there without slipping and cracking our heads open?"

"Very carefully."

"I was hoping for a more specific answer, but that's OK too."

We both squint around the humid chamber and note that our little base rock is relatively near the exit ladder—thank goodness.

"The closest rock is over there," Riley mumbles with a point.

With a literal leap of faith, I propel myself toward said boulder and land, torso first, on the rough, uneven face. Scrambling, I soon find myself safely secured on the new platform. "Come on," I call to him, who now has a deer-in-the-headlights sort of look about him. "If you fall I'll catch you."

Under his breath (and probably not meant for my ears), he mutters, "Could've told me beforehand…" He too goes to jump, but the worn soles of his Converses slip at the last moment, sending him cascading head first into the waves with an ominous splash.

"Riley!" I shove my hand where he went under and somehow grab hold of his hand. Mustering all my strength, I pull his spluttering form from the froth. "You're fine, you're fine…"

He's back to shivering—and his hands are so shaky that if he was holding a glass of juice, he couldn't keep it from spilling all over the place.

"Look, you made it," I say, but still the shuddering. "The rest of the jumps are tiny compared to that; you'll be fine." Nothing—I clasp both his hands between mine and try to hold them still. Little by little, I feel the twitching resistance fade and his breathing slow.

"…thanks," he croaks. "Let's get this over with…"

The rest of the jumps on the oversized stepping stones went much smoother and were relatively uneventful. Although the ladder was covered with three forms of rare algae, we were both elated to reach it and the solid ground our feet are now on.

"I feel like a saturated sponge," Riley says and then shakes his head, splattering water from his messy hair. "Or a wet dog…I wonder if Abigail and Sadusky are having as much fun as we are."

The point hits home like a stab in the chest; Sadusky's never dealt with these types of puzzles before, and Abigail, although strong-willed, isn't all that physically strong—the image of her struggling on the ladder at Cibola flashes before my eyes.

"You think they're all right?" I ask.

"What? Yeah," he says with a shrug, peering down the staircase in front of us. "They're both smart, and Sadusky's been an FBI agent for what, ever?" Sighing, he points down the steps. "I think we're supposed to go this way."

The steps, like the unlit torches, are crumbly and unstable, the clay bricks fading to dust at some points. But still—anything's better than that awful water and deadly game of stepping-stones.

Or so I thought.

We reach the bottom and stop dead, eyes glued ahead. "Well," Riley says shakily in an attempt to act nonchalant, his flashlight bobbing. "We now know that there _has_ to be an easier way to get here. How else could there be a frickin' _live tiger_ down here? It has to eat somehow!"

"Let's keep the cynical observations to ourselves until we figure out a solution, OK?" Somehow-live animals: not part of the deal here, life. Yet off in the middle of the high-ceilinged room is an orange-and-black striped, breathing form—thankfully asleep.

"You think it's one of those fancy lawn ornaments?" Riley whispers. "I've heard they can be _really_ lifelike." He pauses. "That thinking is a little too hopeful, isn't it?"

"Just a tad," I sigh. "But if the thing's asleep, maybe we can sneak around it; I can see the exit on the other side."

"Take that two-by-four on the wall for safe measure, OK?"

Hm. Yes, if the chamber provides me with such arms, I _shall_ use them. Even if all I give this tiger is a bruise on the ol' noggin, it'll be enough to get us through that exit—which has a firm-looking door.

"And, uh…continuing with my hopeful thinking," Riley whispers. "How likely is it that this tiger will rise up, put on a bandanna and try to sell us breakfast cereal?"

"Not very," I say in all seriousness, shaking my head.

"Phooey. There went my last idea."

"Nevertheless, Riley, it was grrr—"

"God, Ben. No. Don't say it." He jerks his thumb over at the sleeping figure as if to say, "Let's focus on the issue at hand here, all right?"

So on we go, tiptoeing, barely daring to breathe or even think beyond a murmur, as if the giant black and orange mass could read minds. I wouldn't be surprised if it had developed freaky abilities like that after living down here for so long—

Uh-oh. The dander—it's everywhere, including my nose. And my nose often gets into wondrous, sneeze-filled arguments with cat dander. I always knew my allergies would be the end of me.

"Ben?" Riley mouths upon noticing my contorting face trying to stop the sneeze. "Uh-oh," he mouths again. "No, please don't sneeze…come on, keep moving…" He grabs my arm not carrying the two-by-four and drags me away, but not before—

"_ACHOO!_"

And a pair of giant amber eyes snaps open.

"Ben—"

"Riley, go! Who's got the big plank of wood again?" But he doesn't budge, instead glancing around desperately, conflict written across his face. "Riley…" I say with a hint of warning; the huge cat's beginning to be more awake…and aware of its surroundings. "Go."

A string of muttered curses issuing from his lips, he turns around with a grieved expression, muttering again—"…this is just like Cibola, and you said you'd never let him do this again, Riley!" My words of reassurance are cut off as he moves toward the exit by the low, ominous sound of a growl.

Wow. Those are _some_ sort of shiny teeth. Come on, Ben, think, think…

"Just hit it and _run_!"

"Riley, I thought I told _you_ to run." And it looks like I might be leaning in that same direction too if this tiger won't stop this stalking approach.

Then suddenly—

"I HATE FROSTED FLAKES!"

Riley's beside me again, armed with some sort of rod, attacking the animal with that unique battle cry, grabbing my wrist and leading my stunned form away before our furry adversary has time to react. "Come now, Mr. Gates. We don't want to get viciously mauled on such a fine day."

The patter and dull click of padded feet and claws echoes behind us at a fast pace, plus an added pained snarl. "You know you just infuriated the thing more, right?" I gasp, legs burning.

"Less talking, more running!"

His hand reaching the latch on the door, he flings it open and dives in, pulling me along (as his hand is still glued to my wrist) but not before fire erupts on the top of my right arm as I snap the door shut.

My sleeve's decided to redye itself. Wonderful.

"Uh…Ben…?" Riley pants, pointing to my arm.

"I know, I know…" I slip off my jacket and try to tie a knot around the wound but the material's too thick and water-laden to stay firm. "You know, you're going to get yourself killed one day, Riley," I sigh.

"Hasn't happened yet, despite the circumstances," he shrugs, coming over to assist me in my futile endeavor. "What's an angry feline compared to Ahmed and Ingram and all them, really?"

"Thanks, though," I say through a wince of pain.

With a puzzled smile, he chuckles, "Not a big deal, seriously."

But it _is_ a big deal—the self-sacrificing person he is has never been appreciated, from offering to stick his hand in the rock to his similar offer on the Topsy-Turvey Table of Terror…to seeing him, out of the corner of my eye, immediately go for Mitch after the guy punched me. I open my mouth to disagree with his nonchalance, but a distant shriek of fear is steadily growing in volume—

And suddenly Abigail and Sadusky tumble out of a sort of chute across the room. How convenient—if somewhat frustrating…why split up the paths if they're going to lead to the same place anyway? Ancient architects…I'll never understand them…

"Abigail?" Riley says, almost as if he can't believe his eyes. "And Sadusky? Where did you…how did…and…?" Finally he just sighs, shrugging.

"Glad to see you too, Mr. Poole," Sadusky says with a small grin. "What are you—wait. Is Ben hurt?" Geez, now everyone's going to get more worried than necessary.

"No, no," I say hastily. "It's just a scratch—"

"Yeah," Riley cuts across me. "A scratch juiced up on steroids!"

"God, Ben," Abigail mutters with concern upon seeing it. They need to stop fretting over it; it's beginning to annoy. "Thankfully," she continues, taking off her small bag and sifting through it. "I came prepared…with a first-aid kit."

"Abigail's a Boy Scout," Riley sings under his breath.

After a subtle but irritated raising of the eyebrows, she turns to my scratch—which is all it is. It just happens to be a very _active_ scratch. "So…how'd you get this?" she inquires.

Instantly Riley's and my gazes lock, both implying that they will not believe what happened. A huge spear jutting out of the wall Indiana-Jones style is plausible, not a live animal. OK, maybe a mouse is plausible, but not a Tony the Tiger back there.

"I'll tell you how he got it," Riley says dramatically. "We were attempting to stealthily sneak past a ginormous, ferocious, sleeping tiger when Ben's allergies betrayed us and we were forced to run for our lives, armed only with a plank of wood and cheap metal rod!"

Silence—Abigail and Sadusky each cock an eyebrow in unison.

"It's true," I say after a few moments of terse awkwardness. Wow…talk about a role reversal, though.

While she finishes up my bandage, more silence ensues; Sadusky glances around, uncomfortable, as Riley rocks back and forth on his feet.

"So!" Riley finally says. "What did you guys deal with?"

"Just…some rope swings over a huge pit with spikes on the floor…nothing too big," the ex-agent replies simply.

"Easy for you to say," Abigail mumbles under her breath so only I can hear. "I was absolutely petrified." The wrap secure around my arm, we all turn our attention to the apparent dead end.

"This it, then?" Sadusky sighs with an examining look at the ceiling.

"'Course not," Riley says quickly. "There's always another way out from the treasure room, so there has to be another path _somewhere_." After a brief gaze around the small room, he moves over to the wall, prying open a largish pantry-sized door above the chute's exit. "Aha! Found it. Uh-oh—I feel a bad pun coming on."

"Feel free to relieve yourself," Sadusky says.

"OK." Pausing, he grimaces a bit, then points to his eyes. "Eye of the tiger!"

"Yeah, that was pretty bad."

"You asked for it." Expression now featuring a more pronounced frown, Riley peers into the door. "Well…I guess…onward, then?"

XXX

**Yes, I split the treasure chamber part in two. Terribly sorry. After about a week and a half of writing it, I got tired of still being on chapter 22. So…more to come later!**

**Please review—action-ish scenes like these are really difficult for me so comments would be much appreciated! **


	23. Chapter 23

**Sunburns are awful, but fanfiction is my aloe. **

**Happy summer to those lucky enough to already be out of school. I, unfortunately, cannot join in your rejoicing for another couple weeks. (tear)**

**Disclaimer: Is it really necessary anymore?**

**_Chapter 23_**

"That is quite a small tunnel."

After having crawled through the pantry-door Riley found, we now find ourselves presented with another problem. Namely, this little tunnel. It's barely large enough for us to get through it on our hands and knees, and it definitely has no extra space—"wriggle-room," as Riley called it.

"Looking at this thing makes me more grateful that Hendrix forced me on that diet," Sadusky mutters, and probably louder than he intended since we all turn and stare. "It was for my cholesterol and the food was gross, so I didn't each much."

"Wait…" I say. "_Hendrix_ made you?"

"Well…yeah." This must be making him kind of uncomfortable; he's getting flustered. And I hate to say it, but it's pretty amusing. "He went on about how unhelpful it would be if I clocked out on an assignment…and then he threatened to shove purple ponies up my hard drive." Wow—never in my life would I have imagined the words "purple ponies" coming from his mouth. "And since I had no idea what that meant nor what it entailed, I obliged."

Abigail just keeps staring, but Riley seems to be thinking deeply. "Purple ponies?" he says slowly, then suddenly frowning. "That little plagiarizer!"

"Can we please keep moving?" Abigail sighs. "I think we'd all rather get out of here sooner than later."

Mumbling in agreement, we file in and begin to crawl, Sadusky at the head, followed by me, Riley, then Abigail. Unfortunately, the size of this tube was grossly overestimated from our previous position—it's even more cramped than I imagined, with barely a centimeter between the top of my head and the ceiling. As Sadusky contends with thick cobwebs and who-knows-what, we pause quite often, making the slow going even slower if that's even possible. But don't get me wrong—I'll gladly let him be the one dealing with the who-knows-what.

"Sadusky!" I call, my voice muffled by our close clay confinements. "Do you see the end of the tunnel?"

"No," comes the muted reply, then a hurried sound of a hand slamming down on the floor, accompanied by a sickening splat and a hold-up in progress. I have a feeling that he just had to squish a very large insect or—I shudder at the thought—spider with his bare hands. Gah, the mental picture alone is enough to get my stomach churning.

After what was most likely the ex-agent trying to rid his hand of bug juice, our slow and labored crawling resumes…again…

"Riley," I hear Abigail say far behind me. "Go, they're moving; I can hear them."

Grabbing Sadusky's foot to signal him to stop, I too pause, ears listening only for Riley coming up behind me. But no such sound reverberates in my eardrum; it's much more worrisome—

"Ben, Ben, Ben," he gasps with shaky breaths. "Get me out of here. I need to turn around, anything…too much, dark…can't move—" The floor begins to shiver slightly as he attempts to maneuver in midst of his panic.

Come on, Ben, think—how do you deal with a claustrophobia attack? "Riley," I say slowly, backing up so my feet are at his hands. "I'm right here—we all are. Don't dwell on it. We'll be out soon."

"That's what they always said!"

Before I can issue a string of distracting reassuring words, Abigail _has_ to ask, "Who?" Keeping his mind on it is _not_ helping!

"If I refused to cooperate, they'd put me in this tiny box of a room and keep me there for days and only give me enough water to make sure I didn't die and feed me this old chicken that gave me food poisoning and I _need to get out of here_!"

I hear his sides scrape the walls as he presumably curls up as best he can into a little ball. Dammit—I can't tell which emotion is more powerful at the moment: the severe concern for his state of being or the absolute hate for Ahmed and the rest of his ex-captors. Why did they have to do this to him, to scar him like this?

"Sadusky!" I call again. "You're the psychology guy! What should we do?"

"Keep him moving; the longer we wait, the worse it'll get."

"OK, Riley," I say kindly. "The faster you move forward the faster you'll get out." My feet already close to him, I wiggle my ankle to tap his hand. "It's going to be all right." Slowly I inch forward, hearing Abigail give him an encouraging nudge—once my feet are beyond the reach of his fingertips, he begins to panic again.

"_Ben?_ Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here. Just crawl a little further, OK?"

This arduous process impedes our progress even more, increasing Riley's anxiety at the same time. What a vicious paradox we've got going on here…I detest seeing him like this, and once this issue's resolved, whether it be next week or next decade—though I certainly hope it's not the latter—I swear I will do all in my power to prevent any more undue suffering in his life. And all this…all this crap he's been dragged through can't even be blamed on bad luck like I assumed before; there's an actual person who is culpable, and that only makes the anger and frustration and grief that more potent.

After what feels like forever but in reality was probably only about fifteen minutes, Sadusky calls back, "It's widening!"

"Did you hear that, Riley?" Abigail says consolingly. "We're almost out!"

As the agent and the rest of us had paused upon this relieving realization, all Riley does in response is clutch my shoe harder.

We arrive at the end, which is tall and wide enough for all of us to sit up in a crowded circle. Hands dirty with age-old dust, we discreetly try to remove all evidence of our excursion from our appearance; Riley cleans his hands, but he cannot clean his memory.

"You OK, there, kid?" Sadusky says after a moment, but Riley doesn't reply. Studying his drained face, the agent frowns slightly. "See…well, to quote a cliché, you can do anything if you put your mind to it…especially writing," he adds like an afterthought. "Your book was excellent."

His clouded face instantly lights up with a small grin and slight spark in his blue eyes; my chest harbors another familiar pang of guilt. The book—it's the epitome, the symbol of my previously indifferent attitude towards him.

"That, uh…looks like a ladder over there," Abigail says quietly with a jerk of the head.

Thankfully this one's not covered in grime or algae, but instead splotches of rust pick away at the rungs. Even though these obstacles have not by any means been fun, I'm glad the builders at least had enough sense to use stable ladders rather than those rickety wooden elevators.

"Do you think we're close to the treasure?" Riley asks as we approach the dusty floor.

"Can't say for sure," I sigh, our feet one by one stepping off the rungs.

"Wonderful," he mutters.

"Come on!" Sadusky says, clapping once. "After all we've faced, we're that much closer. What more could they throw at us?" Thank goodness _someone's_ trying to keep up morale…however obvious the attempt may be, and however obvious that said attempt is not working all that well.

Nodding in tentative agreement, we follow him through the corridor, relishing in the freedom of movement, into another grand chamber, one that's infinitely darker than its predecessors. Abigail and Sadusky flash their lights around in vain, trying to see the trap that we all know is here, somewhere, cached away—the suspense is a slow-acting venom of anxiety.

"So…uh…what's the deal here, guys?" Riley asks after a few moments; with only a reply of a couple confused grimaces, he too fishes out his flashlight and scans the ground—it illuminates a sprawled skeleton with its naked face smiling in death. "Hm. That's pleasant."

"Yeah," Sadusky says after a quick glance at Riley's discovery. "There has to be something here—"

He takes a step forward and a loud cracking snap sounds; we all scream in surprise as something closes around each of our ankles and yanks us skyward, turning the world upside down. Suddenly the oil lamps in the room's corners are ablaze, lighting the room completely, and to our horror more skeletons line the floor like split rice.

"Holy Lord," I hear Riley groan. "This is the end of the line…" I can't see his expression since I'm spinning around, but it must be panicky—or resigned. The thought of that last choice seems so much worse…

"Riley," Abigail says shakily. "It's going to be all right…"

"Tell that to those Jack Skellingtons on the floor!"

My rotating frame faces Sadusky, who is amazingly calm, mouth turned into a small frown and arms crossed. "We need to figure out something before all the blood rushes to our heads," he says with that same air of calm.

"Easier said than done, but I hear you," I sigh, head beginning to pound. Even in Riley and Abigail's pale complexions are the signs of a red flush. But we all just remain there, watching our surroundings revolve in a slow circle until Abigail lets out a piercing squeal—suddenly she's swinging erratically.

"Something just whizzed by my ear!" he squeaks. We hang in silence, suspenseful, torturing silence. Then—

Something shoots past my face as well, and I can't help but gasp, startled. And, upon, spinning myself so I could see the direction of the object, the seriousness of our predicament hits me with the force of a lead brick.

"We're under fire," I say.

"What?" Riley, in his alarm, haphazardly tries to turn but only succeeds in making himself swing more.

"Those were arrows!" I call.

"Agh!" We snap our heads towards Sadusky's outburst to find him doubled-up, his arms wrapped around his feet and the rope. "That last one…was on _fire_," he gasps as another glowing arrow shoots beneath him. "I don't particularly enjoy fire…"

That's a bit of a bizarre fear for an FBI agent…oh well. There's more to worry about at the moment, seeing as we've just had to dodge another barrage of the deadly ammunition.

"What are we going to do?" Riley cries. "We can't just hang here like sitting ducks!"

"I like ducks!" Sadusky says with his eyes squinted shut in anxiety.

Amidst Abigail and Riley's obvious confusion, I try to calm him down to what I would consider normal for the agent.

"I much preferred showing up after all this was over!" he continues.

"Yeah, not as easy as it looks, is it?" Riley mutters to my left.

In the distance, the muted sound of a large latch reaches our ears and the sight of more and more arrows loaded into the individual barrels in the walls registers in our eyes—and fear, more fear explodes in our guts.

"Climb up the ropes like Sadusky!" I yell hurriedly. "Now, before they shoot!"

Chaotically we scramble up, first in a pained sit-up position and then trying to hoist ourselves up, rubbing our hands raw with the coarse rope. No sooner does Abigail finally get herself doubled-up do the arrows begin to fly in a kind of wave from the bottom up. Everything's in slow motion, with exaggerated movements inhibited by air as thick as water as we climb, with the knowledge that one slip of our aching, burning arms will result in our selves resembling a crudely-used voodoo doll. My head, along with the others', makes contact with the ceiling as the last arrow is shot straight into the rubber heel of my shoe.

"That…" Riley pants. "…was _lucky_." There's no better way to sum that up in my opinion.

And it—in a very roundabout, convoluted way—seems to be our lucky day; immediately after the fatal shower ceased our rope traps gradually begin lowering us to the ground.

"I guess they didn't want the dead bodies hanging up for all to see," Sadusky murmurs as our feet touch solid ground. "Lucky for us."

We stand around aimlessly for a few moments, massaging our temples and palms, before Abigail sighs with preoccupation. "I don't know about you guys, but I see the exit hallway over there, and I'm leaving this godforsaken room as fast as my legs can carry me."

"Here, here," I mutter; we all follow her out, dodging rickety, gray bones, and illuminate our flashlights as the oil lamps behind us dim. Somehow I get an instinctive feeling while we enter the next room—this is most likely the last of them all.

"Hm…" Sadusky sighs, scanning the environs with his beam of light. "There's nothing here…but…" His movements cease abruptly. "Aha, look here, Ben." On the far wall, he has revealed another intricate, colorful mural, though one without the religious figures in the first. Instead, a well-dressed, tall man is standing upon a slight hill, arms spread wide—around his frame is a bizarre aura, and beyond that are throngs of Europeans.

"Who is that?" Abigail wonders.

"No idea, but we have to find out," I say, approaching it. "See this? This part right here is like an abacus…I guess we have to move the right number of stones over and then press this button above it…" No doubt that something horrible will happen if we get it wrong.

We remain silent—dread begins to overwhelm me. This is so far out of our league, a league; we're in a league of history I know nothing about…and if we don't know the answer, we'll die a horrendous death or starve—it's not possible to get back the other way, with the chute and trapdoor. The true end of the line is staring us in the face, and it only leads to joining the decorative artifacts on the grimy floor, to becoming part of the ambiance.

I've failed. And it's my fault that we're all going to perish. God, if I had only insisted that we stay home—

"That's Chulalongkorn," Riley says simply with dawning realization. "…the king who saved Siam from complete European colonization so it wouldn't end up like India or Vietnam." Having been hanging back, he gradually ambles beside us and points an absent finger at characters dead-center above the abacus. "And this, if I remember correctly, means 'Rama,' the Thai term for king. They're all numbered like European rulers are, y'know, like Rama I and Rama II, along with their actual names."

"What was Chula-what's-his-name's number?" Abigail immediately asks.

The smile that had been playing on Riley's lips vanished and was quickly replaced by a frown that could only be described as crestfallen. "I…" Screwing his face up in desperate concentration, he grabs the back of his head with a groan.

"Hey," I say. "Don't get so worked up; we've got all the time in the world—"

"Ben, shut up," he says curtly. "You know that's a lie and it's only a distraction anyway."

OK…he's sensitive; good to keep in mind, but I can't place what I could have said to make him snap. While he continues to think, Abigail eyes me with eyebrows raised, motioning over to him the slightest bit. I can only shrug.

"Five!" Riley suddenly exclaims, shifting the stone beads along the abacus. "Chulalongkorn was Rama V, because he was after Mongkut, who I _know_ is four! Now I remember!" Hurriedly he shoves the stones into the designated slots in the center until the five are firmly situated.

"You _sure_ he was five?" Sadusky says as he stares the final button down.

"Absolutely." And without any further hesitation he jams his thumb into the circular emblem, and a blast of stale air greets our faces. "I love pneumonic devices."

Long creases in the stone face had appeared on either side of the five rocks, creating a door. Not a word is spoken between us as we all step forward to heave it open—the grating sound of rock on rock rattles our eardrums until we're staring at a gaping rectangular black hole. None of us shine a light in, fearing only the sight of yet another obstacle to struggle through. Though our panic is dissolved when more flames pop to life and reveal—

"The treasure," Sadusky murmurs in awe and relief. "Was it like this every time, finding it?"

We say nothing, merely smiling to ourselves; sheer amazement sounds alien in his voice. I would pay to see his reaction to Cibola or the Templar treasure if he's this excited about what's before us, which is much less shiny.

Towers upon towers of scrolls, old books, and stocky tomes line the three main paths in the low-ceilinged room. "Look, Abigail," Riley says jokingly. "This is your kind of treasure, isn't it?" As she gazes around the fragile papers, he carefully unravels one scroll, staring at it intently while Sadusky peers over his shoulder.

"You can understand that?" the ex-agent says. Must be Arabic, then.

"Mhm," Riley mumbles, rolling it back up. "These are probably what Ahmed's group wanted…lost Islamic history it looks like…"

For once I do not partake in the post-discovery wanderings and instead march straight up the center aisle.

"Ben?"

At the end, against the back wall, is a black stone podium, on which sits a lovely sphere of butter yellow. The urge to shatter it—the cause of all our problems—wells up briefly before I remember Ingram and Burr could just as easily do that to our life span if we broke their key.

"Wait…Ben." Suddenly Riley's beside me, holding my extended arm back. "What if it's like _Aladdin_ and when you take the big shiny treasure everything explodes into lava?" Is he serious?

"Riley, that's a Disney movie. You're not supposed to take those seriously."

"Even though our little adventures are thrilling enough to potentially fall under that category?"

"Yeah…government corruption and getting stalked and gunned down—I'm sure those are two central aspects of _Bambi_!"

"You know, it's a stretch but that last one just might work—"

"_Not my point!_"

He opens his mouth to reply with what looked like an increasingly irritated retort but we are both shoved aside by Abigail. "There," she sighs with frustration as she plucks the orb from its place. "Problem solved. Let's _go_."

XXX

As is custom across treasure-hoarding cultures, there was an old wobbly door in a dusty corner that led to a back staircase, dank with light-starved mildew. And, just as Riley predicted, there was another door along our much less-eventful journey up that connected to the tiger's room—we could hear the enraged beast clawing the other exit door to splinters through the thin walls.

Finally the trapdoor to fresh air lies above our heads—a relief to everyone, to be sure.

"Let's see where you come out," I murmur, heaving the heavy oaken door with my shoulder.

I fall, torso first, into the ground as I hear Riley come up behind me much more gracefully.

"Are you for _real_?" he says incredulously and to no one in particular. "Are you for _real_?"

Rolling over, I open my eyes and sit up, only to be met with the inky blackness that is the Bangkok night—the surroundings, at least to my senses, aren't discernible.

"Are you…for _real_?" he repeats once more, only softer and laced with hurt.

I can see Sadusky, finally emerging from below, as he pinches himself a few times with a bemused frown. "Yes," he says confidently.

"Learn some slang, Peter," Abigail mutters.

Just then do I realize where we are. The earth, the gleaming gold in the distance, the stone paths, the bushes—we're in front of the temple…where we were hiding just hours ago.

I feel like an idiot.

The rest of us stand in silence as Riley grapples with this revelation, mouthing disjointed fragments of ideas: "the whole time…simpler way…they wouldn't have been alerted…wasted death…" The last small phrase of two simple words he holds onto furiously, mouthing them like his life depends on it, his breathing growing heavier and then slowing to normal. When he finally looks up, we're met with a hardened, cold glare—suddenly his hair is red and peeking out from behind the cell door's shattered window while my own head is blond, my voice tainted with a false British accent. His voice when he speaks has also taken on the dead, resigned look of his eyes.

"Let's just get the hell out of here and to…wherever we need to go next!" He says the last part with clearly cynical cheer, the kind that only makes the listeners cringe at the awkward tension. "So?"

"I've been thinking," Sadusky says cautiously with an eyebrow perked toward Riley. "If we're going to effectively combat Ingram's plan, we need to know what it is."

"Area 51?" Abigail guesses with a sigh.

"Precisely." Sadusky, too, does not look overjoyed. "I'll make arrangements to get us to Arizona…" As he turns away to dial the airport's number (Abigail put it in her speed dial), he casts a worried eye at Riley. "Hello, I'd like to book a flight…"

Our plans are falling into order, but at the same time I can feel something in Riley falling apart.

XXX

**OK. They are finally out of that chamber…woo. But what's with Riley? Hm…more to come later! (Like you'd actually expect me to just up and stop writing this. Pish-posh.)**

**Please review…you know you want to. **


	24. Chapter 24

**I thoroughly embarrassed myself over the weekend at my local Barnes and Noble due to my severe NT obsession…maybe if they had put the audio movie commentary with Turteltaub and JUSTIN BARTHA for NT1 on both the DVD and the stupid Bluray I wouldn't have silently freaked out like a jumpy monkey and had the cashier stare at me like I was crazy. Why must those new discs and players be so freaking expensive?**

**Excuse my frustrated rant. Onto the disclaimer: Disclam-anam-afied to the nth degree. **

**_Chapter 24_**

Fourteen horrific, plane-filled hours later, we find ourselves on domestic territory in the scenic Olympia, Washington airport in the midst of an insanely long layover. The coincidence of having to connect to our flight to Phoenix in Riley's birthplace was something I tried to convince Sadusky to avoid, but unfortunately it was part of the most direct route.

Needless to say, Riley—who already has been thrifty with his words since we left Thailand—has become even more reclusive upon landing, occasionally tracing around his ring finger with his thumb when he's not mashing his lemon into his ice water.

Abigail and I ordered nothing from the restaurant-pub we situated ourselves in, but Sadusky immediately procured a stout bourbon, muttering something about how it wasn't him who would be flying the plane.

Despite the casual chatter around us, the silence amongst ourselves seems to act as a damper to the surrounding conversations, making my ears ring as if the room were soundproof. I glance at the ever-silent Riley who had returned to his lemon mashing and feel Abigail's hand on my knee under the table. At least now I know I'm not imagining things.

Our silent bubble is popped by the scraping of chairs by the round table to our booth's left; it's as if someone has just turned the "mute" off.

I gaze out of habit to the newcomers—a younger man, presumably about thirty-five and bald by choice, and a middle-aged woman (fifty would be pushing it) with electric red hair.

"…didn't know you were flying out today. Just what brings you here, Ms. McLaughlin?"

My eyes slide back over to the two, as do Abigail and Sadusky's heads—Riley merely stop sipping his drink for a moment as his face clouds over. Of course, our nearly unison movement attracts a bit of attention from the woman, who stares at us briefly with a radiant pair of eyes that seem to have a twin set across from me. Coincidence, perhaps…my jet-lagged, sleep-deprived brain can't make any further conclusions than that.

The man—whoever he is—and this "Ms. McLaughlin" continue their conversation, and just as loudly as before. "Oh…well," the woman sighs. "You know that…er, support group I finally got involved with, right, Theo?"

"Yeah…" he says, looking a bit uncomfortable. "The one for…sexual assault, wasn't it?"

Again, along with the panging of my conscience for listening in on their discussion, we all pause (though more discreetly than before) and lock gazes with one another, except Riley. Brow furrowed and face clouding over even more with the billowing fog of contemplation, he exhales tersely and proceeds to mash the remaining pulp out of his mutilated lemon. Sadusky seems to be studying the attack on the fruit wedge; there must be some psychological meaning to it all, I guess. Though somehow lemons don't seem that symbolic.

"Yes," Ms. McLaughlin says with a small nod. "There's a large conference this weekend that wants me to give some sort of 'inspirational' speech based on how I overcame my own particular…er, circumstances." Nervously her glance is momentarily cast to the side as she blinks furiously.

Theo appears to be confused, and all of us at our table take note, the shameless eavesdroppers we've become. "I'm sorry…I don't…?" Hm. He must be the articulate one.

"Oh, right," she says, somewhat flustered. "Well, I…had a son…I never actually met him—I chose the name, but…my son, he's…Riley McLaughlin."

_CRASH!_—In his haste dashing out of his seat, Riley knocks over his ice water to the ground, shattering the glass, and exits without a look back, head down and eyes wide. Silence pierces the once-lively pub.

"My god," Abigail sighs with embarrassment. "I am _so_ sorry," she says to Theo and Ms. McLaughlin before hurrying after him. All Sadusky and I can do is stare at each other.

"Wait…are you Ben Gates?" I wrench my gaze out of shock mode to find Ms. McLaughlin smiling curiously at me.

This is kind of ironic, I must say.

"Um…yes?"

Instantly her mouth falls open in a silent gasp, Theo clearly thinking something along the lines of "not again."

"Oh my _god_," she gushes, jumping up and hastily shaking my hand. "Such an honor—I followed all your adventures so closely and I admire your work, really! And—oh!" Her excited form turns on Sadusky, who just stares in anticipatory worry. "You must be Peter Sadusky, that agent who was always assigned to their case, and now you're all friends…how nice!"

As Ms. McLaughlin catches her breath, his mouth tightens in an attempt not to break out into an awkward grin. "So the two who ran out of here earlier must have been Abigail Chase and Riley Poole!" Still her enormous smile grows larger, and so does the sinking lead block of irony in my chest. It's all I can manage to nod stiffly. "Is there any chance they're coming back?"

Abigail will _eventually _be able to get him to return, no doubt about that…but just how soon no one can be sure. Within seconds after locating the treasure in Bangkok, Riley had become less receptive than is normally healthy for him, so even Abigail may have her limitations today.

"You're in luck," Sadusky says (seeing as he's the one facing the entrance), motioning to the approaching pair. And as I expected, Ms. McLaughlin wastes no time in greeting them, saving Riley for last. I can't read him at all—what thoughts he must have pumping through his brain…I don't even want to think about.

"Mr. Poole," she says with a broad grin as she shakes his hand. "You amaze me. All of your computer programs I've read about are genius! I myself can barely check my e-mail!"

The ghost of a smile colors his face; I can tell he wants to thank her for the compliment, but all he manages is a faint exhale resembling a chuckle and a nod.

"You all…you're just so lucky," she continues. "I'd die to have the unlimited resources you must have…" Briefly looking down, she then directs her gaze mainly to Riley, who had been standing the closest already. "I know I don't have the most…_subtle_ voice"—Theo raises his eyebrows in agreement—"so you probably couldn't help overhearing what I was talking about…"

The tension is overwhelming, and Ms. McLaughlin and Theo are the only ones oblivious to it.

"If I had your resources…I would have gone to find my son. I mean…even though I've never met him and he's done all that stuff…he's still my son. And I do love him…and I so regret not keeping him." Sighing, she says, "That's all I really want anymore." A slight flush tinges her cheeks as she realizes what she spilled to seemingly total strangers, but her gaze never wavers from our faces and Riley's looks like even if the apocalypse came he wouldn't turn away. Through my shock of the moment I see his eyes shining and hear his nose sniffle.

"He gets very sensitive sometimes," Abigail whispers to Ms. McLaughlin as Theo stands from his seat at the table; his clean-shaven face is marked with a small frown as he seems to examine Riley thoroughly.

"What time did you say your flight was, Ms. McLaughlin?" he asks pointedly.

"Hm?" Glancing at her watch, she gasps. "My god, I'm going to be late! It was wonderful meeting you all!"

And in a flash, she's gone, and Theo too—but not without a strange look back at us as the bright lights shine off his head. We remain standing by our booth, staring after her path while a few stray tears streak down Riley's face before he can stop himself.

"Can we just head over to the gate?" he murmurs without looking at us.

"Sure, Riley," I say, and he instantly starts walking, almost like he's dead, but faster.

We take a moment before moving—Sadusky's stance is full of deep, pensive thoughts, and I notice Abigail's voice has become quite a bit more shaky as she mumbles, "I can't even imagine…"

XXX

Just because we moved to the gate doesn't make our wait any shorter.

I've lost track of how long the four of us have been sitting here, Abigail, Sadusky, and I facing Riley across the aisle, having had to scrounge for seats. But I'm sure it's a while—long enough for Abigail to actually want to drink two lattés, long enough for Sadusky to read the entire New York _Times_ and do half the crossword, long enough for my worry for Riley to increase hundredfold.

He's barely spoken.

And when he does, it's never to me.

Which isn't often at all.

And that bothers me.

What did I say to him to make him like this? Abigail's tried earlier to tell me it's just the whole thing with the treasure and fatigue coupled with—obviously—his mother, but if that were so he would give the silent treatment indiscriminately, not just to me. She didn't have an answer to that one. Neither did Sadusky, surprisingly; though the ex-agent seemed to be quite preoccupied with some other matter of business.

So here we sit—silent.

I can't take it anymore.

"You all right, Riley?" I probe.

Immediately his mouth and forehead crease into a minuscule but tense frown. "I'm fine."

"You really don't seem 'fine.'"

"Ben, can you just leave me alone?"

That didn't go as planned; it's not like him to get so sullen and bitter. Something else must be eating at him, only he's giving us no clue as to what it may be. Honestly, I want to help him—however, he's clearly of a different sentiment.

"Riley…" Abigail starts.

"Abigail, really," he sighs. "I'm OK." Yet with her he sounds so much different—still upset, but more drained than angry. My chest tightens up and my thoughts cover with billowing black clouds. And still the insufferable, pained, awkward, helpless silence drags on.

If the acute discomfort of this current situation were an actual entity, I'd drop-kick it off the Sears Tower and laugh at it all the way down. And then I'd hire a taxi to run it over—multiple times.

My entertaining reverie is interrupted by a tap on my shoulder; it's Sadusky. "Ben? Can I speak with you for a moment?" In his hand I notice is a carefully folded section of his newspaper.

"Sure." Abigail shooting me curious glances (and Riley being rather apathetic), he and I casually find our way to a corner of a sparsely occupied snack shop. As soon as he deems it safe, he gazes intensely up at my face.

"Read this," he says tersely, shoving a tiny article under my nose.

_Man Found Dead in Peaks of Otter._

This instantly strikes me as odd. Why would a local death in central Virginia make the _Times_?

"More than the headline," he pushes.

_BEDFORD, VIRGINIA—A case confounding the local police has attracted the attention of national authorities. Carl Newman, 25, was found dead Tuesday on Sharp Top mountain, the tallest in the Blue Ridge range, with few clues that could point to a cause or possible suspect. According to the Bedford police department, Newman's body seemed to have been dragged from the base of a large rock face to where he was found. No conclusion regarding that observation had yet been reached. However, agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, in the area searching for escaped prisoner Ian Howe, offered their assistance in the case, adding even more controversy and enigma to the usually quiet community._

Many things begin to run through my head at light speed and I can't even start to keep track of it all. In the rush hour of thoughts, the only words that make it out of my mouth are survivors of some horrific traffic accident and don't make too much sense in their ravaged state. "Ian…FBI…but that…and the Peaks…?"

"I talked with as many people as I could during that bathroom trip a couple hours ago," he murmurs with a furtive gaze at the oblivious cashier. "Apparently Howe's escape wasn't well-publicized at all, which is strange enough in itself. And then this Carl Newman fellow winds up dead in…well, you know what's up in the Peaks of Otter." Raising his eyebrows, he obviously is thinking the same thing I am—the prison, Riley's prison…Ian's prison.

"You think Ian did this?" I mutter with another glance at the paper.

"It's very suspicious, Ben, very suspicious. I don't like it at all, but…risk of immediate danger is low. Current news reports"—he flips back a couple pages to a much larger article—"show we're hiding in Vladivostok, Russia…and my former task force is there at the moment, headed by…Hendrix." He sighs, and it's laced with pain. "The kid's bright, but sometimes he's just _clueless_ and the last thing I want for him is to get unknowingly wrapped up in this mess only to have it come crashing down around his ears later…" Words fading to nothing, Sadusky absently chews the top of his bottom lip as he surveys the racks of processed food with a subtle glare. The thought that he for once has no ability to alter the circumstances he's currently in must be clawing at him along with everything else.

"Screw cholesterol," he mutters under his breath, snatching a pack of beef jerky.

I follow him up to the counter. "You told Abigail and Riley about this?" I ask as conversationally as I could. Even still, the cashier gives us a funny look, which ceases abruptly when the agent returns it with an intense glare. It takes all my willpower not to laugh; Riley in his normal mood definitely would have at least snorted.

"No," he sighs, swiping the change off the counter. "Abigail would go into a tizzy about _really_ going into hiding when Howe has no idea of our whereabouts…and Riley…well, does he really need another thing on his mind?"

I nod; it would be silly—suicidal even—to give his overloaded brain more information. "Can I see the article again?"

"Here, but read it quickly. I don't want them asking questions."

Scanning the small paragraph takes a grand total of ten seconds and my perpetual sinking feeling gains a little momentum. The victim was found dragged from a rock face…and the name was Carl Newman. _Carl_, the front guard—that innocent, clueless kid…I only saw him twice, but still. That doesn't change the fact that he's dead and that in an indirect way it could easily be attributed to us. Pawns are always the first to be sacrificed for the grand scheme. Grunting in frustrated grief, I roughly toss the paper in the trash can.

"You're finished, I take it?" he says between bites of jerky.

"Yeah…" As we head back to our seats, I think that for the first time this layover, I won't mind the silence.

XXX

**Hm. What's going on, I wonder? And poor Riley. (hugs)**

**Please review! I am slogging through the last full week of school before exams and really would like some feedback. (smiles)**


	25. Chapter 25

**Shwa. So onto a sort of different chapter after that loaded doozy. **

**Disclaimer: Love does not translate into ownership, sadly enough. **

**_Chapter 25_**

I am the king of obvious observations: the first thing that crosses my mind when we step outside the Phoenix airport is, "Wow. It's hot." I'm sure Einstein would have taken fifteen minutes to reach that conclusion—at least.

Who am I kidding? I just needed a little sarcastic quip to lighten the mood; with Riley being tight-lipped, I was going through Rileyism withdrawal and the only way to get rid of it was to think of one myself. Though if I had said it aloud I probably could have counted on a punch in the arm. Shame…the bruises from my Stan-bashing have just healed.

"The rent-a-car's over here," Sadusky says upon exiting. We follow him past the crowds of people with duffels and rolling suitcases galore to the side where a dusty Jeep Cherokee awaits. I think the car may have been a forest green at one point, but now it's a perfect tone of sand. "This was the only four-wheel drive they had," he says. "It just got back from an off-roading trip, but it'll get us from point A to point B."

Riley approaches the back door and pries it open as the caked dust sprinkles to the pavement. "Charming," he mutters. "We stopping by a car wash, then?"

"Nope," the agent says cheerfully. "The dirt's great camouflage in the desert, where there's not much space to hide. And believe me, we don't want to be found."

Abigail and I exchange blank glances before turning back to him. "How come?" she asks slowly.

"Area 51's a top-secret place—you've _got_ to realize that. We're at risk even going near it."

"We really don't have much of a choice," I sigh quietly, casting a glance at Riley, who is memorizing the cracks in the parking lot under the front tire. Suddenly the urge to grab him by the shoulders and just hold him like I wish his mother could have done and keep Ingram and the world at bay, even just for a second. But I have to subdue the inclination—I'd just get shoved away.

"Nothing's going to be resolved standing here," Sadusky says with a sympathetic look at me.

"Right," Abigail agrees, squeezing my shoulder and wearing one of those grim smiles.

"I'll drive," I offer.

"You know where to go?" the agent says, grinning. My silence is a sufficient answer, it seems. "Didn't think so." He climbs into the driver's seat as Riley and Abigail do the same in the back.

I feel a million miles away.

"You coming?"

It wasn't Sadusky, nor was it Abigail—through the open door, I see Riley's head leaning against the tinted window, a faint reflection meeting my eyes. His own briefly flick toward me.

"Yeah."

The corner of his mouth twitches, yanking me back from a million miles to only a few.

XXX

Ridiculously obvious observation number two: deserts are dull.

Amid the lifeless car trip banter, my brain takes inventory of the surroundings.

"Hey…" Abigail says, leaning up a bit. "Peter, how much longer do you think we have?"

Cactus. Cactus. Rock. Tumbleweed.

"Hard to say," he sighs.

Lizard. Cactus. Snake. Rock. Dead mouse.

"Yeah," Riley mutters into the window. "Everything looks the same. No landmarks."

Cactus. Sand sand sand sand sand. Vulture.

"Not necessarily, Riley," Sadusky laughs. What's so funny? Sand and cacti are not funny—note my lack of giggling. And then off the road we go.

"Hey, I think we're supposed to stay on that big gray thing with the yellow lines down the middle," Riley says calmly yet more alertly than he's been for the past few hours.

"Area 51 doesn't have its own exit."

"But can't someone see us?" Abigail says, casting a glance behind us, and Sadusky quickly has to cover his snort with a coughing fit. Also take not how "other cars" was conspicuously absent from my comprehensive desert list.

Dust and sand billow up into a foggy cloud behind us as the tires bump and jostle over various small cacti, rocks, tumbleweed and such. "You sure you know where you're going?" Riley says amongst the jolts.

"There's nothing else you have to go by."

By the looks of it, we're probably still in for another hour at the least. Back to the inventory.

Dust cloud. Cactus. Dust cloud. Rock. Dead shrub.

XXX

The engine cut and our jarred bodies tingling with this new sensation of ceased motion, Sadusky inches out of the car and edges along the face of the giant red sandstone boulder in whose shadow we've been cached.

That familiar thudding of nervous adrenaline circulates through my veins, the adrenaline of heists and illegal activities that gives a clear reminder of just how insane we are. Stealing the Declaration, kidnapping the president, breaking Riley out of prison, plainly walking into the FBI—all those seem at least relatively less daunting than sneaking into one of the most secretive government headquarters, one that's been close to the hearts of conspiracy theorists for ages. Then again, I've had this similar line of thinking prior to doing all these other schemes the past few months.

It's time to accept we do crazy things and move on.

"Hey…" Sadusky's back and whispering like the whole world can overhear him. "We're parked along the back…there's an entrance in the rear but we have to hotwire it, and there definitely will be cameras inside so—"

"I'll do it," Riley interrupts. "Or else we're not getting in." As much as we are reluctant to force the task on him, it's true. "Where to, then?"

After throwing a great deal of our weight into the dirt-cemented car doors just to open them, we move slowly behind the agent, the blistering dry heat making our mouths and skin want to crack for lack of moisture.

"Why would anyone want to work out here?" Abigail mutters.

"_SHH!_" Sadusky waves behind him, eyes glued around the corner. "All right, move."

Between our safe spot and said building—plain concrete and windowless—has to be at least a quarter-mile of a super-exposed mad dash to the door, the one lone stripe of glinting metal.

"C'mon, we don't have all day!"

Outside of our protective shadow the sun is even more tortuous—sunburns already are beginning to form if the scalding on my cheeks is any indication. Suddenly I appreciate leafy trees a whole lot more.

Faces glistening, we approach the door. "Can you get in?" Abigail says as Riley surveys the ten-button punchpad.

"Yeah, hold on…" His fingernails search along the contours of the box and find a groove; in seconds he has the cover discarded on the ground and his hands go to fiddling with the array of wires inside. If that were me, I'm pretty sure I would have electrocuted myself by now.

"…can't believe some of the stuff they're doing, can you?"

We freeze, my blood running cold. That voice was from _inside_…and it sounded like it was coming closer.

We're dead, caught, done—our hand's literally in the cookie jar. And there's no place to hide.

Maybe they'll make it quick; there's no need to draw out any unnecessary suffering, right?

No one else has moved in our panic, except Riley, whose hands above the mass of wires are twitching in indecision as his eyes flicker around and sweat plops from the tip of his nose. After about five seconds he slams his hand into the fray, his fist returning with a fat red coil.

"Nighty-night," he murmurs and then gives it a rough tug, smiling broadly.

"…where'd the power go, Dave?"

"Dunno…let's go check upstairs."

Riley, meanwhile, is looking smugly pleased with himself. "They need to work on their wiring." As he tries to secure the pad's casing (only to leave it askew like ours before Cibola), he continues, "And the best part is that all the cameras and lights are off, too."

"Shouldn't they have a generator, though?" I ask.

"I'm guessing that what Riley cut _was_ their generator," Sadusky says. "We should go ahead and get in before they figured out what happened."

Halfway expecting the door to betray us with a deafening squeak, we slide through, grateful to whoever had greased the hinges earlier. The voices and steps of Dave and his companion are further off but we still duck into a shadowy enclave.

"What are we looking for?" Abigail mouths, only to get a grimacing shrug in return from Sadusky.

Well that's just wonderful. We might as well be a flock of chickens or—to humor him—ducks with our heads cut off, completely blind. And Lord knows we can't possibly check every room; our luck doesn't go _that_ far.

"Let me just see…" Riley breathes, poking his head around the corner.

Then the voices return, and I pull him back into the safe folds of darkness. Before reverting back to his former policy of ignoring me, he has to shoot me a tiny glare—for what I don't know.

"…eh, they said they'd figure it out, but it better be fast, Dave. I only get one coffee break."

"What were you saying before though? About Nathaniel Ingram?" Almost like a dog's, our ears perk up.

"Well, Frank, from what I've heard, he's trying to use these super-weapons in sector E to take over the banana industry in French Guiana."

"Wha—why?"

"It's been said that taking control of that industry in some South American countries is equitable to overthrowing the government, the nations are so dependent on it."

"I've heard about banana politics, Dave. Why French Guiana?"

A pause follows. "My source—who you know is pretty reliable—says Ingram wants to take over the colony to start a war with France, apparently to finally get back those unpaid war loans from World War I. The man's mindset is that those sums will help offset some of our country's exorbitant debt, stop the spiraling economy and boost the value of the dollar."

"That's ridiculous."

"Tell me about it. With France in the European Union, that's just _asking _for World War III."

"Can't the UN intervene?"

"From how secretive the operation is, I don't know if they can react in time once things start unfolding."

"Which won't be for a while!" Frank laughs.

"I know! Has Ingram forgotten those weapons aren't functioning yet?"

My inside pocket of my jacket suddenly bulges more obviously—or at least it seems that way, that the accursed orb is growing, feeding off the trouble it's caused. A buzz in my intuition tells me everyone else's eyes are focused on the same thing.

Approaching in the distance is another set of footsteps clapping along the tile floor.

"Hey," Frank's voice greets. "You from maintenance?"

"Mhm," the newcomer says. "The technicians said the circuit break was by the back entrance pad."

"That's odd."

"Yeah, really," Dave chuckles. "We don't use it enough for anything to go wrong."

"I'll say."

"Still," the maintenance man sighs. "Someone's got to check it." The only indication that the door is opened is the rolling wave of heat that stings our faces and the sunlight that creeps into our dark cover. Thankfully we can retreat enough to keep from exposing ourselves. "Uh-oh. Looks like we've got a bigger problem here, fellas."

Dave and Frank's curious murmurings fade as they step outdoors, giving us the chance to at least mumble.

"We need to go in and see these 'super-weapons' for ourselves," Sadusky mouths.

"That's _suicide_," Abigail breathes. "We have the information and that's _all_ we need."

"I'm with her," Riley mutters under his breath with a point of his thumb.

Before I have a chance to answer, the voices return, quite perturbed.

"…that's fishy."

"_That's_ an understatement."

"They can't have gone far—look over here!"

Oh no.

"I vote Abigail's plan," I mouth quickly.

Taking advantage of the element of surprise, we launch ourselves from our hiding spot and into our potential discoverers. Who I presume are Dave and Frank are quickly incapacitated by some hurried team maneuver by Abigail and Sadusky; as we stand momentarily in shock of the crumpled bodies below us, the maintenance man is able to lumber off down the hall—to sound the alert.

"Run," Riley squeaks.

And back to baking in the scalding sun while we all secretly wait for the scalding searing pain of a bullet to lodge in our back as we run the seemingly longer span to the car.

"Ben!" Abigail pants after a peek behind us. "They're coming! And they're armed!"

"They won't kill us," Sadusky says matter-of-factly. "They'll do that after they capture and question us on how we broke in, which I don't think we were planning on anyway."

Despite our burning limbs and burning skin and burning fear, our legs keep pumping and the base rock keeps approaching. None of us risk a glance over the shoulder to see the security advancing quickly behind us.

Momentum from our sprinting threatens to slam us into the savior that is our Jeep; hands slippery with sweat, we take hours to pry the doors open and dive in, and then only milliseconds for Sadusky to turn the engine and throw it into Reverse. In moments we're nothing but a dust cloud.

"B-but…" Riley gasps, half-collapsed over the back seat. "What a-about…the license plate?"

Abruptly switching to Drive, Sadusky says simply with the overtone of a smirk, "Desert took care of that."

Thank God for caked mud and grime.

XXX

**Woo! Notes for this chapter: banana politics is true, I swear. My friend's dad heard about it on a talk radio show or something back in February. And French Guiana is a tiny little colony in north-east South America, north of Brazil and east of Suriname. Just so you know. **

**And I don't own the Jeep company; I was just riding in one when I was writing that part, so…yeah. **

**Please review! (smiles hopefully)**


	26. Chapter 26

**I recently saw a trailer for the new Nicolas Cage movie…he's a sniper…in Bangkok. It struck me as oddly coincidental when looking at the Thai escapades in this fic. Off topic a bit, but I thought it was kind of funny.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing at all, 'K people?**

**_Chapter 26_**

For once we finally have a clue. And after going clueless for so long, it's a very foreign sensation, one that's accompanied by a feeling of awe as well as disgust.

We all are pawns in something that could create World War III.

Wow—and that's not the good kind of "wow."

We're feeling the overwhelming pressure: here we are, one of two groups of people who have the full story of what's going on, and the only group in possession of the main variable—that stupid little stone.

I really don't have any sort of idea what's so exciting about it. The thing—as I heard Riley describe it to Abigail—is "pretty, shiny, and yellow for about three seconds and then it's just plain boring." Of course by that reasoning, one would have to conclude that the orb changes color after three seconds; Abigail pointed that out in a hurry, causing Riley to act colorblind until she left the room.

Riley—he's loosened up a little bit since we got home, as in he's speaking to me and acting a _little_ more normal. In the past week he's joked around some, even talked with Talal, and just gotten out more. Before we've been so paranoid that nobody wanted to risk it; he goes for a few hours at a time and reappears very drained. Last time I checked, there weren't any emotionally draining movies in theaters, and besides, he always says he hates going there alone.

We can only guess, and guessing is exactly what my brain's up to now, though I'm trying to ignore it an pay more attention to this TV show that's just come on. And—just what I needed—it's confusing, at least to me.

From the kitchen wafts the delectable beefy scent of Abigail's pot roast for dinner tonight, in a way honoring our first relatively uneventful week in a while. The dish is always good, though I'm beginning to suspect she can't cook much else.

The TV switches to some commercial on cholesterol medication (I wonder if Sadusky's seen this…) as the front door creaks open.

"Hey Riley," I call; he's the only one that's been out…unless Ian's shown up to seek his revenge. Let's pretend that last one's not an option.

"Hey…" he sighs, collapsing onto the sofa beside me. His eyes are tinged pink around the edges.

"Where've you been?"

Shrugging, he shakes his head to deflect the question. Well, he seems sober enough so his eyes can't be bloodshot from alcohol. "Wait," he says abruptly as the show returns. "You're watching 'The Office'?"

"Is that what this is?"

"Y'know," he says with a growing smile. "This is one of those things in my 'you know the world is ending when' list—you watching 'The Office.'"

"It's confusing."

"It's _hilarious_!"

"Fine then. Answer me this, though," I say, turning my head in his direction. "What does 'that's what she said' mean?"

In the terribly long ten seconds Riley stares at me, I discover that crickets have invaded our house, and very loud chirpy ones at that. I'm surprised Abigail and Sadusky haven't come running yet at the sound of the infestation.

"You honestly don't know?" he asks, full of incredulity and amusement. "Man, you _are_ straight out of the nineteenth century."

"Could you tell me what it means?"

"Psh," he chuckles. "I'm not your health teacher."

OK then. Back to being bemused, back to the closest thing to normalcy we have, just as the red in his eyes begins to fade.

XXX

Again the pot roast. Its steaming, brown, juicy self is staring up at me with an invisible face among its little green bean and mashed potato buddies. I'm sure it's delicious as it always has been. But tonight I simply cannot partake in it, and neither can Riley (and he's a bottomless pit on normal days).

"Something wrong?" Abigail asks upon noticing our untouched plates. Sadusky too briefly looks up from his green beans with subtle confusion.

"No…I'm just…" I sigh. "…not hungry."

"Me neither," Riley agrees with a mumble.

"You were just complaining how ravenous you were a few minutes ago," she says.

Exchanging similar looks of resignation, neither of us says a word. A sudden loss of appetite usually has no explanation as far as I know.

"Wait a second…" With her fork pointed toward Sadusky's nose, Abigail becomes very pensive. "Peter, I think we forgot to pick up paper towels at the store."

Paper towels? That's bizarre to abruptly remember and get so worked up over; apparently the same thought passes through the minds of my other male comrades.

"We did?" the ex-agent says slowly.

"Yes," she says significantly. "So we can clean up _after dinner_?"

"Oh. _Oh,_" he says with realization. "Right, the paper towels. We should go get that."

As they stand and hurry to the door, I can't help but wonder if they're really thinking that was subtle. No way in Cibola are they skipping merrily off to find absorbent paper squares.

Once the slamming of the front door fades to nothing, Riley turns to me, saying, "Well. That was unusual."

We both excuse ourselves from the table, seeing as we weren't going to be eating anyway, and shuffle over to the living room. Beneath the TV stand lies his Super Nintendo, covered in dust like an artifact from the Templar treasure. Even some of the books on the shelves to the TV's right seem a little neglected. Riley absently begins to peruse the titles.

"What do you think they're actually doing?" he asks after a minute or so.

"Who knows?"

"Yeah…it's probably something very secretive and FBI-ish."

"'Paper towels' is hardly a code name, though."

Nodding with a sigh, he squints up to one of the taller shelves and cocks his head to one side. I'm having a hard time recalling what's up there—some old David McCullough volumes are stashed somewhere, maybe an old collection of Shakespeare. I don't know anymore.

His feet rolling to put all his balance on the tips, his hand stretches above his head and brings down a dark maroon-jacketed book with a thin film of dust.

By the slightly upset look creeping onto his face, I think I can guess which dark maroon-jacketed book it is.

This does not bode well.

"Did…did you ever get around to reading it?" he asks with the ghost of a quiet chuckle.

The one question that I wanted him to avoid has to be the one he asks first; I don't have an answer. Actually, I do, but the thought of admitting it, letting my disappointing response fall upon his ears that have already witnessed too much makes my stomach squirm.

"Well…did you?" he probes again, his hurt frown becoming a bit more apparent.

I want to just say it and get it over with but my vocal chords are malfunctioning; opening my mouth, I can't make a sound.

"Should have known," he mutters glumly, examining the book. "The spine's barely cracked. I…just thought…" His thoughts die into a shrug.

"Riley—"

"I've been thinking…" Turning the book over in his hand, he sighs as the silence persists. "What am I to you?"

Oh no. Again, I can't reply immediately, or even soon. I want to say the truth—that he's my best friend—but his absolute hurt and confusion is throwing me off guard to the point of when I do get a sound out, it's pure rambling.

"Riley, I'll read it. Really, I will. You know we've been busy lately, and—"

"It's not just about the frickin' book, OK?" His outburst fills the entire room and leaks out into the spacious foyer where it bounces around the tiles.

"Then…" I say, sighing. I have a hard time looking at him, at that frustration and multitude of other emotions I don't want to face. "Then what _is_ this about?"

"Everything!" Hands motioning around the room, his face takes on a stare that most would probably associate with me. "I think I finally got it…I finally understand."

"Understand what?" By the rolling of his eyes, I can tell he's getting fed up with my lack of comprehension.

"What I am." His mouth is set as a grim, straight line across his face as he stares, waiting for me to say something. But what? What does he want? "Ben, how's your dad doing? No, Riley just keep working! Why don't we do this, Ben? No, Riley, _this_ is the right way." Again he waits for me, again he stares me down. "I'm the blindly-following lowly coworker to you, aren't I?"

Cue the overflow of my ever-present guilt meter—the mercury spills over and poisons my insides. Reason…I have to reason with him—

"Riley—"

"Just stop, OK? Listen. Or at least try. All these plans we've tried…they all had to go by your approval! Y'know, if we had scoped out the temple better instead of just going ahead blindly with your idea, we could have found the trapdoor and avoided those ninjas altogether and Caroline might still be _alive!_"

While he tries to wipe away the few drops of moisture that came to his eyes, the truth of his words hits home and things make sense: the "wasted death" he soundlessly had gone on about in Thailand is hers. Caroline…I've been trying not to think about her in all honesty, but that doesn't change that I do actually miss her; blocking the grief until I could effectively deal with it seemed the most pragmatic option. Riley, on the other hand—

"Speaking of Caroline," he continues. "You say you need me?"

This time I can actually answer. "Of course, Riley! Why would you think other—"

"What a load of bull!" he says as he cuts across my words. "Oh, 'Riley, I could never be better off without you!' Yeah. Sure. How long did it take for you to replace me, Ben?"

"Replace you?"

"Yeah. Replace me. With Caroline."

"Riley, she couldn't do half of what you can…" My voice tapers under his hurt glare, and I realize how all this—everything—looks on the outside for the first time. All I want to do is get a complete thought in edgewise!

"She got me out of jail, didn't she? And that's all you wanted, wasn't it? To get this whole thing resolved so you can pursue your own agenda with page forty-seven and have me available as an asset!"

"_NO!_" I shout, which quickly gets his attention. "No, no…I was generally concerned for you! Understatement—I was horrendously worried! You have no idea; ask Abigail, I was a wreck—"

"You expect me to believe that? Lately, you seem to care about that much"—he holds up his index finger and thumb very close together—"and seem to be 'genuinely concerned' only with the overall goal. Notice how you sat and did _nothing_ when I flipped out in Olympia. Abigail came—not you."

"Riley—"

"You get so…" he says, motioning wildly to find the right word. "…so _consumed_ with these adventures that you forget everything else around you! It's your way or the highway; I'm checking out that second option."

Face set in determination, he pushes past my stunned form and makes a beeline down the hallway and in the distance I hear him roughly rummaging through his bedroom.

God, no—he can't do this!

"Riley, we can work this out!" I call, jogging after him; panic courses through my veins, making my thoughts jumbled. "Please," I say desperately as I come upon his room. "This isn't necessary—"

With backpack stuffed haphazardly in hand, he meets me at the doorway. I try to block it.

"Move," he says simply.

"Riley…"

"I'm taking my life into my own hands. Without you." The last two words shot a hole in my offense—he is easily able to push past me once more, keys to the Ferrari clanging by his side.

"No…" It's only a whisper but it gets my body moving again. By the time I reach the foyer the front door is already swung open and the sound of slamming car doors travels in from the driveway.

I step over the threshold to see the red vehicle flying down the strip, flinging gravel up in its wake as the low, deep, thrum of the engine blends into the crying wind through the trees.

"Ben?"

I wrench my gaze from the driveway and to my right—Abigail's standing there, a blank look of confusion coloring her features. Sadusky's still over by her car, door hanging open with his hand on his forehead and eyes on the upturned pebbles before him.

With a look down, I realize that in her hands is a huge tub of Moose Track ice cream—Riley's favorite, and something I know he hasn't had in a long while. The heat coming from her tenuous grasp forces the snowy ice encrusted on the plastic to melt, dripping onto the stoop like stray tears.

"Ben," she says again, casting a fleeting glance to where Riley's car once was. "What happened?"

XXX

**Uh-oh…Riley's left…but it's not like this conversation wasn't coming…**

**I know I remind constantly, but please review! **


	27. Chapter 27

**Onward to twenty-seven…and the guilt-ridden Ben. Woo…? And if I remember correctly, I think I wrote the last half of this chapter a week ago at like five in the morning for some odd reason. Hm…**

**Oh, and it's another doozy of a chapter. Must have been my five in the morning brain at work. (And to unorthodox yo-yo...happy birthday. You get a new chapter, lol.)**

**Disclaimer: Even if I took over Disney, this would still belong to Turteltaub and all them. Oh well.**

**_Chapter 27_**

What happened—Abigail asked me and I still after three days cannot tell her exactly what detonated that ticking time bomb. It's not that I don't know the answer; it's the fact that…well, admitting it would seal the deal and make it real, all rhyming aside.

I'm back into denial again. He can't be gone, I keep telling myself, it doesn't make any sense. Sure it does.

You screwed up big time, Ben. Nice one. And now Riley's off probably getting himself captured, hurt, or killed—thanks to you. _And_ you're talking to yourself in second person.

I don't think Abigail and Sadusky are doing any better. When they're not off whispering in obscure corners, he's holding his head in pensive thought and she's secluded herself in Riley's food-hoarding room. Maybe by now she's let go of the whole issue with him stealing the St. Patrick's Day cookies.

That's where we find ourselves now—in our separate spheres of lonesome thought, all trying to think of solutions to a problem that continually proves impossible to fix. Echoing through the silence is the dull clicking tick of the kitchen clock as it tallies each second since Riley's flee.

How many ticks are we at now?

It seems like infinity, maybe more. After all, even the most impossible situations have been shown to be plausible in these many past months. Who's to say infinity-plus-one doesn't exist?

Riley could probably prove my conjecture wrong. But he's clearly not here; I'll go on believing, then.

Suddenly the all-too-loud doorbell buzzes for the first time since Sadusky showed up with Riley's arrest warrant—there's some irony there, I think.

"I'll get it," Sadusky mutters from the other room; I hear his heavy shoes clop to the door and the murmurs of halfway hushed voices. "Ben, it's your parents."

Geez, I haven't seen—much less spoken to—them since we stopped by for the secret stitching back before the thought of Thailand had entered our heads. I wonder what's prompted this visit…

"Ben!" Mom sighs happily as she gives me a hug; Dad nods simply. "How are…what's wrong?"

Her perceptive gaze scans my face as I look beyond her to Dad, and to Sadusky in the doorway. Concern and dismay written across his face, the agent clearly is somewhere else mentally.

"Nothing, Mom. Nothing's wrong."

She sighs impatiently, and Dad mumbles, "Emily, if he doesn't want to talk—"

"Shush, Patrick," she mutters back curtly. "Ben, dear…please?"

"Mom…it's just a…_very_ long story."

"I'll have to vouch for him on that one," Sadusky says suddenly, even without the slightest alteration in his facial expression. There isn't even evidence that his mouth moved at all.

"That's all right," she says with a small frown. "You owe us an explanation anyway." That's right…we didn't have time before…wonderful. Like I really want to relive this whole ordeal. "Where's Riley?"

Wow—they always seem to ask that when they're over here, don't they?

"He's got to be around here somewhere," Dad mutters. "I haven't seen any news report saying he's been re-arrested."

"Patrick!" Mom shoots him a warning look, then turning back to my squirming self. "Ben…?"

"He hasn't been caught," I say absently. "Sit down."

I spill everything, anything that comes across in my mind in relation to our predicament. His arrest, the attempts of getting him out of prison, Caroline and the whole rigmarole with their relationship—they sit through all that (even Sadusky, since he also was unaware of these details) and now I approach…_it._ The story, when he explained what he knew—will they believe me as a third party? Their focused stares silently push me forward as I stumble and trip over the tale of Ahmed and tie in our escapade in Syria.

As the story progresses their eyes pop from their sockets—Sadusky too—and their mouths hang pendulously.

Somehow I manage to casually skip over the eventful fight between Riley and Caroline that ended in Skittlemania—what ever happened to those days?—and arrive at…Thailand, a name that will by synonymous with pain for the rest of my time on this earth.

My mouth dry from speaking for so long, it now feels like someone else is doing the talking for me, like I'm an observer. I don't even know if I'm making sense, my head's so disconnected; I come back to reality as I realize I'm truly rambling.

"…and now he's gone, run off, and it's all my fault…" Forcing my mouth shut, I glance up at the still-ticking clock. More than an hour has passed.

"So it's all true?" Dad says from his chair. "About the FBI and French Guiana? It's true?" I nod stiffly, slowly. "Holy _crap_."

Mom hasn't said anything the entire time: hands cupped around her nose and mouth, I don't think she can say anything even if she wants to. The shock is obvious.

"Ben, um…" Sadusky says awkwardly, still in the door frame. "I meant to tell you earlier…the orb's gone."

_What?_

"It was stolen? What, what do you mean?" I say quickly.

"Riley took it when he left. He scribbled a note."

Oh no, oh no—OK, calm, think calm, Ben. Breathe. That wasn't so hard now, was it? Now I just have to stop my heart trying to take out my rib cage with a battering ram.

"Oh god, Sadusky! He said he was taking his life into his own hands! No…he took it to try and strike a deal with the agents in Guiana!"

"I know," he sighs.

"Those guys aren't going to work with him!"

"I know," he sighs again.

"He's going to get himself _killed_, dammit!" My fists in my wild state slam down upon the breakfast table like they were careening into Ingram's face. As soon as the clatter ceases, so the words for a moment.

"Ben," Dad says quietly. "Riley's a grown person who can make his own decisions." Now where have I heard that before? "You don't have to take care of him like he's your son or little brother."

"You have a point, Patrick," Mom says, slightly dismissive. "But would you let any of _your_ friends do this, walk right up to the barrel of a gun? It's like that photo of the lone Chinese student facing the tanks in Tiananmen Square."

Of course, there's always the explanation no one wants to be the one to voice: maybe he decided to go _because_ it was so dangerous. Maybe he stopped caring once he though I had.

"And, um…" Sadusky says again, this time pulling up the last empty chair. "I know you don't want to hear it, but there's something else…"

More? There's always more. Did fate ever consider _asking_ us if we wanted seconds or thirds of misfortune? We got full a _long_ time ago.

"I still have contact with Agents Dawes and Michaels at the Bureau; they were spared what Hendrix received. Well, after the incident with Riley's mother in Olympia, I asked them to do a follow-up and get some information on her."

A pause—why is he pausing? It can't be good by the looks of it: his visage is suddenly coated with dismay.

"Her conference was in Los Angeles that Saturday a week ago. Later that night…she was found dead outside her hotel."

"_What? _How?" I exclaim, eyes stinging not only for the loss of life but also for the loss of opportunity for Riley, the unceremonious shooting of his hope for an actual family other than our ragtag bunch. Mom and Dad are showing similar shock.

"Katrina McLaughlin had no enemies. She was a well-liked, respected bank teller in downtown Olympia; this could very well be a random crime."

"Well, it _is_ Los Angeles," Dad mutters numbly.

"But there's something too fishy about this!" Sadusky pushes, his voice hushed as not to disturb Abigail in whatever she's doing. "How likely is it that his mother gets killed accidentally within twenty-four hours of unknowingly meeting her long-lost son when said son is being unmercifully dogged by the FBI? This is what Ingram _wants_, Ben! He wants Riley to be so distressed and grieved that he makes stupid decisions in the FBI's favor. They could have knocked her off easily—the CIA overthrew whole governments in its prime!

"Ben, when we met Katrina McLaughlin, did you watch that other guy she was with, Theo, at all?" he presses while his speech continues to pick up speed. "He kept looking at Riley strangely," he says without waiting for an answer. "Like he knew who he was. And then he asked her so pointedly about her plane, almost as if he were shooing her away. Ben," he says, grabbing my forearm in desperation. "I think we may have been face to face with Charlie Green."

His adamant expression melts into one of almost disbelief as I just stare. Something tells me I should be remembering this name.

"Who?" Thanks, Mom, for asking the question for me.

"The third member of the top FBI triumvirate: Ingram, Burr, and Green. But—remember, Ben?—they are the only three that know Green's face and current alias."

Ah, yes; that does ring a bell now, albeit not a very good one. It's more like an alarm bell.

"Sadusky," I say once I get my thoughts aligned. "You said it would have been easy for them to do this, but just how _likely_ is it?"

Sighing, he holds his forehead in his hand. "There's no way to be sure, Ben. But all the same, we need to keep that option open, and, above all, to not tell Riley about it until we all get through this."

As much as I hate keeping this from him, Sadusky's right. I'm the last person Riley wants to hear from right now anyway, and these bad tidings would not make for a very pleasant voicemail. And besides, the news would simply make him make stupid, rash decisions.

_Not unlike some of your own? _A voice in the back of my head jibes until I push it away.

"And before you ask, Abigail knows," the agent adds. "It upset her quite a bit, this whole thing about his mother, especially after your fight."

We sit in silence (for what seems like the millionth time) as the lead block of the impending, looming future sits above our heads; the cord holding it up may snap any day. Perhaps it already has and now we're cleaning up the aftermath—but that seems too easy.

More keeps happening: we're in no way out of this yet.

"Ben," Dad says. "You're clearly very occupied with…all this, so we're going to go ahead and get out of your hair…" They both make to stand, but he pauses. "The next time you see this kid, tell him I'm sorry for the way I acted before."

Nodding with a fleeting grin, I say, "And I promise not to show up at your house the next time I'm on the run from the FBI."

"Don't be silly, Ben!" Mom manages to laugh as we follow them to the front door. "You've done that what, twice now? What's one more time, really?" She pecks me on the cheek, Dad placing his hand on my shoulder and resting it there until she walks outside.

"Listen, Ben," he murmurs. "I know this must be unbearable. But everything's going to turn out all right. I mean…" He tosses his head from side to side like he's tossing around an idea. "It can only go up from here, can't it?"

"_At least the only way it can go now is up," I said as I pulled up a chair beside Riley._

"_Heh…you don't know. I've thought those exact words many, many times and I'm still in a downward spiral_._"_

God, I hope that's not some omen; I can't deal with this trend much longer.

By the time I yank myself back to the present, my parents are already pulling away in their car. "Is it even worth it anymore, fighting back like this?" I mumble over the click of the shutting door.

"Ben?"

Having not seen her all day, Abigail's sudden appearance at the top of the stairs continues the growing trend of throwing me off guard.

"Hey…where've you been?"

"Thinking…" It still looks like she's doing her fair share. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" Right about the time she says this, Sadusky seems to disappear into thin air. Must be an agent trick or something.

"Sure, sure," I say, coming up the stairs to meet her. "What, is everything OK?"

The response I receive an unsure twitch of the mouth, she jerks her head to the door behind her. Only after we step inside and shut the door does she begin to speak, but even still she's uncharacteristically fidgety.

"You…you know I love you, right?" she says quickly, shifting her weight from foot to foot. I nod.

There's a pause—she bites her lip, sighing, before continuing. "There's a lot of stuff going on with Riley right now." Again I nod.

And again she pauses. This is killing me, Abigail; what do you want to say? "Ben, I think we should take a break."

…Huh?

"I think…" she says, her voice wavering. "We—everybody—have some issues to work through, and…it would probably be better if that were done on our own."

I can't even think, much less move, much less speak as I take another dull bludgeon to the insides. My face wears an expression of blank shock, as far as I can tell.

"Ben?" she says, putting her hand to her mouth as she blinks back moisture from her eyes. "Please don't look at me like that! This is really hard!"

Before I know it, she is latched onto me in a fierce hug, arms slung around my neck briefly until she puts my face in her view once more. "But please, just keep the house since I got it last time. Don't worry about me; I'm sleeping on Peter's couch—but don't read into it, please!"

Suddenly she kisses me intensely, her tears leaking onto my own face; I'm still too numb to respond. "I know I called you a lunatic after you stole the Declaration," she says after breaking away. "But you're my lunatic, and I swear I love you. I'm sorry things turned out this way."

Without a look back, she exits the room and heads down the stairs and out the door, where Sadusky's standing. I follow much more slowly and eye the downcast agent with surprisingly no resentment.

"Don't let her get too hysterical," I say to him quietly.

"I'm sorry." With a conflicted sigh, he walks slowly in her wake, leaving me alone with the ticking clock.

X

_"If that were true, he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream." (F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby)_

XXX

**Poor Ben. Poor Riley. Poor everyone. (sigh) I wanted to get this up before I go out of town for all of next week—just letting you know. Maybe by the time I get back I'll have finished the actual writing of the rest of this fic. Hm…**

**Hoorah! The horrors of junior year are finally behind me! (I'm kind of excited, can't you tell?)**

**Please review. (pokes)**


	28. Chapter 28

**OK. I'm back, and a little later than expected due to internet malfunctions. (Woo.) And here's another chapter, of which there is now a definite number. (So yes, on vacation I did finish it. Amazingly enough.)**

**Disclaimer: I'm the anti-Finding-Nemo-Pelican…NOT MINE.**

**_Chapter 28_**

I've never really appreciated just how big this house is, with its multitude of hallways featuring room after room—now all empty. From the living room to my own bedroom, all I hear is nothing, not a TV, not the flipping of crinkley pages, not even my own voice. I don't think I've spoken in the past four days.

And Riley had said forever ago that I could have purchased a bigger house with the Templar treasure money. Why would I have needed to? What I have now is already overwhelming.

Riley—in my oh-so-deep introspective thought these past four days, I've come to the all-too-obvious conclusion that just maybe these issues that Abigail said I needed to work through have to do with him. She never did get a full explanation of our argument as I was still a little…y'know, upset and worried and such. I didn't want to talk about it anyway; heck, I _still_ don't. But my mind won't let it go.

All I can see are his fingers brushing off the thin dust on his embossed, yellow lettering and his face falling as discreetly as possible. All I can see is his hurt, rightly accusing stare…and his car leaving…and the ice cream melting and Abigail dashing out the door before she can change her mind…and Sadusky, too.

It's back to square one, then—_the_ square one, as in before Ian showed up with his funding: I have an insanely far-fetched entity to contend with and no one to contend with it alongside me.

This was always the part of a board game I absolutely detested, when you're almost at the finish and then you draw the card that sends you back to the beginning, or to jail (and I'm sure I didn't collect my two-hundred dollars).

Suddenly the phone rings and I'm grudgingly aware of my surroundings—ceiling before me, mushy couch beneath me, glasses askew. The usual. And I really don't want to get up; let the answering machine get it.

"_Beep!_ Ben, seriously, pick up the damn phone—I know you're there, OK?"

That has to be the tenth message from Sadusky this afternoon and most definitely the most concise and colorful.

And again a-ringing it goes, not four seconds after he hung up. Let's see what he says this time.

"PICK UP."

Make me.

Hm. Well, I can't have him filling up my answering machine…so…that's unplugged. He can call, but now all it'll do is ring. Fighting to keep a grin off my face, I wander to the kitchen to stare in the fridge in hopes that new food will have materialized since the last time I checked.

Nope. There's some Jello, some (how typically) pot roast, a grapefruit, and some expired Slim Fast. Where the hell did _those_ come from? Oh wait—Sadusky's diet courtesy of Hendrix. Suddenly that's extremely funny.

Geez, I'm losing it.

What else is new?

Right on cue, the grating jingle of the phone sounds once more and keeps on sounding…and sounding…and sounding…

Hey look: there's some _cherry _Jello, not any of that nasty blue kind. They call that stuff blueberry? It's more along the lines of ew-berry. Seriously.

Wow, Mr. Peter Sadusky is quite persistent this time around. Even after five straight minutes, the man's still holding out. Well news flash: I'm not answering. In the back of my head I can almost hear him respond, _News flash: I'm not hanging up_.

Maybe I should just unplug the whole phone.

No, then he'll probably come over in person.

So here I sit, and with nothing better to keep my attention than a plastic spork and empty cup of cherry Jello, my mind wanders.

I wonder where Riley is.

My God, that phone is _so_ irritating.

Is he still angry with me?

How I want to smash that device with a sledgehammer!

Well, duh, of course he's still angry. He would have come back otherwise, right? 'Cause he's like that. Right?

I thought I knew. Don't I still? I hope—that's all I have left anymore, these past memories. Sighing, I meander to the godforsaken phone and pick up the receiver.

"What?" My voice cracks with disuse.

"I was just about to hang up," Sadusky says in his usual manner.

"No you weren't."

"Why do you say that?"

"Pete," I say flatly. "Cut to the chase. What do you want?"

The sound in my ear rattles roughly as he sighs right into his receiver. "I just wanted to check and make sure you were all right, because…well, _that_ day you were—"

"A wreck, I know. See? I'm alive. Everything's fine." On the other end, I hear nothing but eerie silence. "How's Abigail?"

"She's…iffy. She was asleep the last time I checked. And Ben, I realize these arrangements are awkward—"

"I understand. You aren't together."

"Other things worrying you?" he probes gently.

"I don't have to worry about a preponderance of blueberry Jello taking over my fridge anymore."

"Ben."

"Hi."

"Playing with Jello's fun for only so long."

"And you would know?"

"You've got to face what we're up against eventually. I'll be in touch later, OK?"

A dull click and he's gone, along with the constant clang of the ring. Now it's just me, and that infernal clock keeps on ticking away, not only marking the time that's passed but also the dwindling time from my hourglass of opportunity.

My guilt-meter having heaved its last breath during the infamous argument, the full onslaught of what seems like everything cascades upon me. I need to work on these issues, these Riley-issues. As I collapse back into my mold on the sunken couch, my mind begins—or at least attempts—to whir.

Let's stop and think for a moment: why was Riley so upset in the first place? That's simple enough to pinpoint. He thinks I don't care about him, even when he obviously is fiercely loyal.

How do I fix that?

Well…that's easy, too: show him I really do.

The gears slow to a standstill at that one. I don't know where he is, what he's doing, anything. Worry creeping up my veins, my fingers twitch as they rest on my knees. What _is_ he doing? Maybe he's attacking another tiger with a metal pole and cereal battle cry. Maybe he's hacking back into the Archives for the hell of it. Maybe Ingram's not currently stepping over his dead body.

I can't stand this.

Where's his book?

Still lying precariously on the edge of the side table, it seems to stare back at me as I peer at it over the arm rest. I should at least read the first chapter. It's not like I have anything else better to do—

I didn't just think that. No, I _have_ to do this. It's the first step in making this right again.

Let's see…the gray dust coats my fingertips as I brush it off and open to page one: "The Templar Treasure: What They Never Told You." Hm…honestly, hearing Riley's account of that adventure will probably be quite entertaining…

"_About the time we had a ship explode around us, I knew things were not going to go smoothly anymore. What ship, you ask? See, all the news coverage on this skipped over the multitude of wonderful historic details, which I'm sure as you the reader, who bothered to pick up this book, are sincerely interested in._

"_This too, among the content of the rest of these chapters, is about a conspiracy theory—per se…"_

XXX

The next thing I know is charcoal blackness with peppy green numerals creaming that it's two-something in the morning; unfortunately the rest of the time is blocked by a large quantity of bound pages laying on my face.

As my eyes readjust with the help of the limited moonlight streaming through the window, I note I got all the way to the end of chapter four—something about Roswell, which surprisingly enough was very intriguing; I'd never read much about conspiracy theories.

But while my mind shakes off the fog of sleep, I briefly wonder what woke me up.

Then I realize someone's staring at me from a few feet away. Falling off the couch, I scramble to my feet and grab an ornamental paperweight off the coffee table. The person never moves.

"Ben, I would really appreciate it if you didn't bludgeon me to death," Sadusky chuckles.

OK, what the heck is he doing here in the middle of the night? "It's two in the morning, Sadusky," I grunt as I sit back up on the sofa.

"Actually, it's two-fifteen. And I said I'd be in touch." He comes to sit down beside me.

"At two in the morning?"

"Two-fifteen."

"Whatever," I mutter, waving my hand dismissively. "What do you need?"

"No, no, no," he laughs again, but I really don't see what's so funny, honestly. Maybe he's punchy; Riley had a "punchy test," where if you went up to someone and said, "pudding." If they laughed, they were punchy. However, if I gave this test to the agent, that would only give him and Abigail more probable reason to declare me off my rocker.

"I have something _you_ need," he continues, and then clearly waits for a response. Too bad he's not getting one—it got delayed due to a bad storm of "it's just a tad too early."

"I got Michaels and Dawes to do me another favor," he says lightly. "It took a couple days, but they just got back to me on it about an hour ago." Turning his head in my direction, he raises his eyebrows. How is he so awake? "They found where Riley went."

"Really? Where? Is he all right?" I instantly choke out.

"Yes," he sighs. "As far as they can tell he's fine—they would have told me otherwise—and reports how he flew into Cayenne, the capital of French Guiana, within the past week."

"Tell them thank you for me," I mumble. French Guiana—he's really doing it, then? What exactly is he planning on accomplishing, though?

I don't realize I'm almost doubled over until Sadusky gently shakes my shoulder. "You all right?"

"You asked me that already today."

"This one's from Abigail." He pauses, sighing. "Ben, Ingram noticed Riley's movement as well, and I think part of the plan has been implemented. Banana prices in the colony have shot up in the past few days."

I let the news—troubling as it is—sink in. "So he's moving in?"

"Yes, and—"

"So should I."

My interruption silencing him, Sadusky stares at me with his mouth barely parted. It's had the same effect on me as well—all at once things seemed so incredibly clear, even after my subconscious must have been laboring away since his departure. In that respect, epiphanies are quite annoying.

"Ben," he says, standing with cautious worry. "That's not what Abigail meant by 'resolving issues.'" What did she mean then? "L-listen to your father: Riley's what, twenty-six?"

"He can't do this alone!"

"You can't play superhero like this, Ben! Saving everyone—it's not possible, OK?"

"If I save him, this likely World War II can be prevented—_thousands_ will be spared!"

"And what are you going to do when you get down there?" he shouts, more out of emphasis than anger. "You have no clue exactly where he is, and once you find him, then what? Two people can't take on Ingram and his forces alone!"

"What do you expect me to do then? Just sit here?" I too get to my feet, but my voice remains at normal volume.

"I—I…I'm worried about him, too, but there's only so much we can do. We're not his family." By the time he finishes out the phrase, his speech has faded to a sigh, his eyes full to the brim with conflict.

"He never had a family, so we're as good as." Without meeting his gaze, I turn on the spot, grabbing my coat, Riley's book, and my keys, and march out the door. In the distance I hear the ex-agent call my name until the thundering growl of my engine overshadows it, and instead a different voice fills my ears, one that had accompanied a slightly confused face of the past…

"_Go contradict the world, why don't you?"_

Caroline, I won't let what happened to you happen to Riley: I don't think I could take it.

XXX

There was no sense in heading straight to the airport at—what time is it now?—two-forty in the morning, and seeing as we've spent way too much time in them these past few months, that's pretty much _the_ last place on my list to go. At least not until it's completely necessary.

So I came here, to this old, slightly bizarre, twenty-four hour diner on the outskirts of town. The fluorescent light above my lacquered table flickering, I look down the long row of empty pastel-shaded booths, thinking of the last time I came here, when the place was bustling and noisy. In other words, when I came with Riley—it was right after I met him for the first time in Mr. Hebrews' office…

_Among the clanking of plates and silverware, he looked sort of uncomfortable, which was to be understood. I had known him for a grand total of three minutes before I invited him out here._

"_So, Mr. Poole," I began, and he started to fidget a bit. "Uh…you OK?"_

"_You can call me Riley. 'Mr. Poole'…makes me sound, uh…old." Suddenly he found the salt shaker to be quite intriguing; I thought nothing of his request, though it makes sense now…_

"_Well then, Riley," I said. "Do you know much about history?" With a grimace, he shook his head. "That's OK, really. But…have you heard of the Knights Templar?" Again he shook his head. "How about the Crusades?" Clearly relieved, he nodded a bit more livelier. "Well then…there's this story that my family has…"_

_He listened patiently, soaking up every word; once the last syllable of "treasure" was out of my mouth, however, his eyes lit up immensely and he became completely engrossed. But once I concluded the tale, explaining how we needed someone good with computers, the spark almost literally dimmed as he seemed to mull the idea over. _

"_Wh-where did you say you got my name from?" he asked quickly. _

"_Your boss. Mr. Hebrews, wasn't it?" He nodded, eyes closed and definitely more calm. _

"_This sounds really interesting, Mr. Gates," he said with a chuckle. _

"_Please, call me Ben; 'Mr.' makes me feel old, too." For a second he didn't catch the reference, but then he nodded once more, and hastily too. "Let's get some food before I dive into the nitty-gritty details, since I already talked your ear off." The sticky laminated menu fell open in front of me. "You said you've been here before. Is the chicken sandwich good?"_

"_Yeah," he said, eyes scanning the selection but looking up momentarily. "Don't get it, though."_

"_Why?"_

"_It takes _forever_," he said with his eyebrows perked. "Honestly, I think they have to kill the chicken. And then when they have the feathery thing running around like the headless horseman, they have to recruit the local high school's track team to chase it down. Only after that can they even begin to prepare your sandwich."_

_Silence._

"_You serious?" I muttered, wary glance cast at the kitchen door. _

_His gaze met mine, and still he said nothing. After about two seconds he burst into laughter which he instantly tried to contain. "Sorry, sorry," he said as he regained his composure. "That was a little thing I like to call 'sarcasm,' Ben."_

_And so it had begun._

"Sir?"

A fatigued waitress is staring down at me, pen in hand. For a moment I wonder how long she's been standing there.

"What do you want to order?" she asks, probably for the second or third time.

"Um…" I haven't even looked at the menu beside me. "I'll have the chicken sandwich."

"We stopped carrying it…something about how it always took so long to cook…" Rolling her eyes, she gazes back down expectantly.

"Uh…just a coffee then."

"Decaf?"

"No, thank you though."

As she's leaving, I call after her, "Does Dulles airport carry flights to South America?" Surprisingly, she stops and just stands there, then rotating back around.

"I wouldn't know," she says with a shrug. "But I always thought you could get to anywhere this side of Asia from that airport." Over the brim of her heavy glasses, her speculative eyes scan my face. "Why?"

"I just need to get down there."

"Y'know…" she sighs as she heads to the coffee pot behind the counter. "'Bout a week ago some young kid was in here and asked me the same things—right down to the chicken sandwich, even. Cute kid…he had the brightest pair of blue eyes I've ever seen." I'm sure the only reason this lady can get by with calling Riley a kid is that she's got to be sixty years old.

"If you're chasing after him, you'd better hurry," she keeps on. "He looked a little jilted." When she turns around to find me staring with eyebrows raised, she merely laughs. Somehow lately I've been missing a lot of jokes. "I was right on the money, wasn't I? It was just a guess, though, hon. Thought the coincidence had to be related in one way or another."

As the steam from my coffee rolls skyward in wispy white streams, the fact that both Riley and I came here to this restaurant won't leave me alone—it was probably just on the way, but what if he, like me, sought it out specifically? I can almost see a phantom hand in mid-motion, demonstrating the long, drawn-out process of preparing the chicken. Maybe he was trying to cleanse himself completely of those memories, and those spectrums I see are their residue, a remaining imprint on the surroundings.

I'm using the word "maybe" quite a lot recently; nothing is certain anymore.

Soon the teal mug is being slid across the table and the strong scent drifts past my nose.

"So…what is he to you?" the waitress probes.

"He's—" My throat catches and forces whatever I was about to say down my esophagus. Bowing my head, I clutch the mug until my palms are most likely red with the heat.

"It's complicated?" she supplies, nodding.

"Yeah." More than she'll ever know.

"I'll call and check on flights for you. Where exactly are you headed?"

"Cayenne, French Guiana."

XXX

**Wow. This was longer than usual. But I had fun with Ben in the beginning, and I hope it wasn't too incredibly boring or uneventful. (sweatdrop)**

**Please review. **


	29. Chapter 29

**I have officially deemed this chapter "Attack of the Minor Characters," for reasons you will understand later. Now that I think about it, this whole story has been an "Attack of the Minor Characters." Anyway.**

**And for those of you who know French, you're going to feel smarter than Ben for a while. And for those of you who don't, that's OK, too.**

**Disclaimer: For the twenty-ninth time, I don't own the rights to National Treasure.**

**_Chapter 29_**

After spending about two seconds in the Cayenne airport, I soon realized why this place is called "_French_ Guiana."

They all speak French…unlike myself. Actually, my vocabulary is rather extensive, consisting of "oui," "merci," and "très joli." Only recently did I make the discovery that the last one translates literally as "very pretty." Those Parisian cops must have thought I was Mr. McSketchy.

So basically I'm at a loss because very few people seem to know English, and I haven't had the pleasure of meeting them just yet. They must be hiding.

Amidst the French chatter (and smattering of Portuguese since this colony's so close to Brazil) I sit in one of the main lobbies in hope that some friendly English-speaking attendant will sense my distress and come to my aid. But based on my luck so far, I shouldn't get those hopes up.

"Regarde-là, Auguste."

"Nous l'avons vu à Paris, n'est-ce pas?"

It's Syria and Saudi Arabia all over again—no clue what these people are saying, though it seems to be directed at me, only this time I lack a translator. But those two guys look kind of familiar…

"Oui, oui!" the other man nods. "Son ami avait l'hélicopteur près de la Femme de Laboulaye!"

Laboulaye? Score one for Ben: he picked up a word! While I try to think what they could be referring to, I fail to notice them approaching me.

"Bonjour, monsieur! Est-ce que vous vous rappelez mon ami et moi? Nous étions les policiers que vous avez rencontré à Paris il y a un an!"

Grinning broadly, they stare at me, and I stare at them (minus the grin) and it's just one big awkward silence. "I don't speak French, messieurs."

"Ah, oui!" one says, turning to the other. "C'est correcte. Souviens-toi qu'il ne pouvait pas lire ce qui était sur la Femme?" Silent, the other nods.

Of course, I have no idea if they understood me or not. I should really get on that learn-a-second-language thing.

"Right," the one continues in an accent. "We forgot you cannot understand _le français_. But I do hope you remember us—the police in Paris, with your friend and the helicopter?"

Oh wow—now that they mention it…this is bizarre. The one who just spoke I remember being quite talkative beside his more reserved companion. But without their bicycle helmets I really wouldn't have made the connection myself.

"Yeah," I say. "Yeah, I do…uh…" Just then it occurs to me I don't know their names.

"Jean-Louis," the talkative one supplies. "And this is Auguste." Auguste simply tilts his head.

"What brings you to Cayenne?" I ask, trying to make some conversation.

"We received—what is the phrase?—paid vacation," Jean-Louis says. "So we say, 'Let's go to Cayenne!'" Taking a quick look around, he keeps on, "And where is your friend? I hope he's still not upset about the ticket."

Is it really so odd to see me in public without Riley at my side that even these Parisian cops have to bring it up? "Um…" I sigh. "He's around here somewhere…" And that's not exactly a lie.

"Do you need a…uh, lift into town?" Auguste offers.

"That would be very nice, merci," I say, quite grateful.

"Quand il a dit que son ami est quelque part, que veut-il dire? Quelque part à l'aeroport, ou…?" Jean-Louis murmurs in his comrade's ear; intuition poking at my insides tells me that they didn't exactly fall for my lame excuse for Riley's absence.

"Je ne sais pas, mais on devrait l'aider. Il semble qu'il soit inquieté de quelque chose." After a unison—and halfway comical—examining look at my face, they go to nodding in absolute agreement. "So!" Auguste says. "Let's go find a taxi."

XXX

Seeing as they had to check into their hotel in less than an hour, Jean-Louis and Auguste left pretty quickly after dropping me off in the city's center plaza with Jean-Louis' battered French-English dictionary. Now at least I can read signs and such, though I stand out as a tourist.

I found this little café about an hour ago and placed myself here, but I ordered nothing. Food would only distract me anyway, and I really need to think. Asking people if they've seen Riley, although the best means I've come up with, is the least effective in my circumstances. Just because I have a dictionary doesn't mean I'm fluent—by no means.

In a sort of desperate fling at trying to make some progress, I taught myself some key words I might need to overhear, like "banana." Unfortunately, the word for "pineapple" sounds pretty similar, so I'll never be one hundred percent sure—it's probably a conspiracy to confuse me. I wonder…did Riley include it in his book? Anyway…come on, Ben, stop getting distracted.

Besides that, I've got nothing, natta, zippo, or—as the French would say it—rien. Sadusky's urgings play back in my head over and over again as I attempt to mute them. Of course I couldn't just let Riley come down here so rashly; I'm really berating myself for waiting so long in the first place. If the situation was reversed, he would have stolen away in the trunk of my car as I pulled away. But no—I stare. I stare as he runs, I stare as he gets arrested, I stare…all the time! He must—more like he _does_—think I'm so cold sometimes.

Plus, I couldn't _not_ follow him after reading the dedication in his book; it was honestly revenge of the zombie guilt meter:

"_To Ben—thanks for saving me."_

I really didn't need much more of a push.

Most annoyingly the couple seated a few tables over keeps rustling their newspaper—or at least the man does. The woman, on the other hand, is examining her fingernails and every so often glances up to check his progress.

"Il semble que…" the man says as he lowers the paper. "Les prix des bananes augmentent."

Key word: bananes. Hopefully it wasn't "ananas"; that would be embarrassing.

"Ça alors," the woman sighs in a sarcastic tone, then murmuring quietly with lips pursed.

"Mademoiselle Rôcher! Cette idée est folle."

"Cette idée-ci marche pendant nous parlons, monsieur," she says menacingly. Half of me wants to know what's being said and the other half very much wishes to stay out of it. But there's something familiar about that last name Rôcher…

"Je sais que tu as rencontré Monsieur Green il y a un jour," Rôcher continues. "Où va-t-il? J'ai besoin de lui parler."

Monsieur Green? Wait—Rôcher was one of those agents Sadusky told us about forever ago…I have a hunch some of her peers are amongst the crowds somewhere…

"De quoi?"

"Ce n'est pas tes oignons." Without another word, Rôcher stands roughly, the chair scraping the cobblestone of the street-side patio. I avert my eyes quickly in hopes she doesn't recognize me—needless to say she's been shown a picture from someone high up. "Jean-Baptiste!"

An inconspicuous man in sunglasses who had been leaning against the main wall of the restaurant building springs to life and follows close behind her. Jean-Baptiste Vernay…he was another—

And they're muttering to themselves and heading to the street…and a car. I can't lose them now, now that I have somewhat of a lead.

I'm coming, Riley, I assure him—and myself—mentally. If anyone's going to know where you are, it's someone close to Ingram.

Hey look—a taxi.

I climb in hurriedly, pulling myself up so I can converse better with the driver. "Do you speak English?"

"Um…yes?" Confused, he eyes me from the rearview mirror as Rôcher and Vernay make their getaway.

"Could you follow that red car, sir?" That's quite a bright, obvious color. Hm…what is that now, three strikes of good luck in the past thirty seconds?

"Oui, monsieur." As we take off through the streets of Cayenne, twisting and turning and going in all sorts of obscure places, the driver still takes a peek at me in the back seat. "So where are you from, monsieur?"

"United States."

"We don't get many Americans here," he comments, taking a sharp turn to keep on the red car's trail. "Much less ones that are involved in car chases."

Why do I always run into the overly-perceptive ones? I choose to go temporarily deaf—it's not like I really want to delve into everything with a stranger, and it's not like I can anyway.

Suddenly our seats lurch and tumble as our two cars transition onto a rocky dirt path lined with thickening vegetation. The driver's mouth tightens into a small frown, as does mine. Discretion will be hard to maintain in such a sparsely-populated area. Wonderful.

"This is as far as I'm bringing you, monsieur," the driver sighs, pressing the brake. "I don't know what you're doing, but I don't want to risk being involved all the same."

"I understand." Out of my pocket comes a few crumpled bills and they fall into his hands. "Keep the change. And _merci beaucoup_."

Nodding, he backs the taxi down the path until its last evidence of it being here is a few small twirling clouds of orange-brown dust.

Now instead of a clanking engine I hear the incessant buzzing of an army of insects trying to fill the void of sound in this isolated place. I guess I have no choice but to keep following the tire tracks left by Rôcher and Vernay's car.

I wish I weren't alone.

As the path winds further into the mesh of jungle, it becomes much more arduous going; ten minutes in, I come upon the red vehicle, completely abandoned. Thankfully the trail doesn't disappear as well—those look like footprints below me.

"All I need is a machete so I can _really_ feel like Indiana Jones," Riley would be saying.

Abigail would sigh and push him in the arm playfully as we all three would work to attack a particularly thick vine obstructing our way. After a stretch of uneventful traveling, he would begin to whistle the seven dwarf's song "Hi Ho," probably just to insert a bit of humor.

Only after some freakish tree nut falls on my shoe do I realize I've stopped moving. A strong gust of wind rattles through the leafy trees—for a moment I thought it was them.

But no—I'm alone.

Yet I keep walking, thinking that maybe I won't be so lonesome much longer, despite the company of a thousand assorted little beasties, ones (as Riley would put it) who conveniently forget to read you the Miranda Rights or give a fair trial and skip straight to the execution. Aren't there supposed to be those giant, dinner plate sized, bird-eating spiders down here?

Shuddering, I pick up the pace: if that thing can eat a bird, it can eat my face. And I need to have a functioning face to find Riley.

The more miles I put behind me, the more time I have to worry about what he'll say when I find him. Will he be upset that I believed he couldn't handle it? Will he actually be in danger and need help? Will he…I don't know. Part of me wants to find him by following these two agents, but my other more sensible half is screaming that if this path does in fact lead to Riley, then we will be in much deeper trouble than I have prepared for.

"Je sais que tu nous suis."

The sudden sound almost makes me cry out, and it does make me jump, enough so to turn me around to see the source—Rôcher and Vernay somehow got behind me. That's comforting.

"Listen, I don't speak French, Madeleine," I say with as much confidence as my battered supply can produce.

"OK, then, Gates," she says, smiling. Now I'm staring down the shiny barrel of a pistol. "Let me rephrase that: I know you're following us. Looking for McLaughlin, or do I assume to much?"

"Do you know where he is?"

Smile crawling further along her suntanned face, she lowers the gun until it's hanging loose by her side. "Aw, how sweet," she says condescendingly. "Coming after your friend to save him from a terrible fate? That's the one thing you can't save people from, Gates. Your resistance was admirable, but even McLaughlin recognized the need to throw in the towel. We tailed him after his arrival—depressed didn't even begin to cover it."

Involuntarily my hands clench into fists, whether from anger at them or anxiety about Riley I can't tell. It's probably both.

"Did we touch a nerve?" Vernay chuckles.

"Where is he?" I say slowly, dangerously; a vein in my temple throbs with the tension.

"Gun's still loaded, monsieur," Rôcher smiles. "You're not in a position for demands."

"What?" I say. "What do you want, then?"

"We want you to stop following us," Vernay warns, taking Rôcher by the arm and hiking back toward the exit and their car.

That's just perfect: this whole thing was a trap. And turning around isn't exactly an option anymore since I'd be "following them," which, at best, would earn me a hole in the head. Why'd they lure me on this path in the first place? Watch Tony the Tiger from Thailand be at the end, hell-bent on vengeance—at this point, I would not be surprised.

But what's really eating at me—probably like they wanted to—is that they wouldn't give me a straight answer about Riley. From what Rôcher was detailing, he could have been suicidal for all I know. My panic becomes wings on my heels, making my strides lengthen into an almost jog.

Can't I ever see him smile again, that smile that could somehow ease nearly any pain thrown at it…

"_My girlfriend kicked me out, I'm living with my dad, and my family killed President Lincoln."_

"_All right." And with a nod and a grin he was able to accomplish more than any words could._

A burst of light and heat strikes my head as the flora above begins to thin, the dirt and stone beneath my shoes turning to patches of pale green and yellowing grass. In the shade I never appreciated the agonizing compound of heat and humidity in the extremes. How can anybody function in this? Twenty seconds haven't even passed and my brow is already teeming with beads of perspiration.

Wishing for my sunglasses, I step into an enormous clearing, rainforest and jungle surrounding the periphery. In the distance are a few rumbling specks—helicopters, perhaps?—and before me, I find the most startling and definitely terrifying sight of my life.

I have just walked into a sizable division of the US army, armed and everything.

They see me, and I know it—but all we do is stare, them shifting uncomfortably in their uniforms with their hands on their frighteningly huge rifles. Yet their commanders are not in uniform.

One I recognize immediately—the cold eyes, limp, blond-ish hair, carrying a knapsack loaded with something or other. Chester Burr: he greets me with a sneering grin.

But the other is the only one I have eyes, words, or time for at the moment. I approach him, disbelief recorded in each step, as words attempt to be vocalized; finally once I'm within three feet of them, they succeed.

"Ian?"

And sure enough it is—the too-familiar face twists in yet another unspoken joke. "Gates," he laughs. "Sorry I never told you. I usually go by the name Charlie Green."

XXX

**Dun dun dun…yes, a cliffhanger. Terribly sorry. Chapter 30 will pick up right after this, so don't worry, and it will come complete with explanations and the whole shebang.**

**Please, please review. **


	30. Chapter 30

**No comment.**

**Disclaimer: Need I reiterate this for the umpteenth time?**

**_Chapter 30_**

"What?"

In response all I receive are a few lone chuckles from Burr and Ian as they shake their heads. This…sense is proving difficult to find after this last bit of news. Ian is Charlie Green?

"Yes," Ian says with a smile. "I play a good psychopath, don't I? But really Ben…someone had to keep you motivated to find that treasure if we were ever going to move on to bigger and better things."

This isn't sinking in well. "Ian—"

"Charlie," he corrects.

"Whoever you are—I don't care," I say quickly. "You almost blew us up in the Charlotte." Giving him a look that says, "care to explain?", I also shoot him with a sharp glare.

"Would you like me to be frank?"

"That would be appreciated." Still we stare each other down, and Burr looks between us like he can see the physical spark of animosity in our gazes.

"Well, _frankly_," he says with mock innocence. "You were getting to be so obstinate that I was ready to start over with new people. But, as it were, things worked out. You survived, and I still had to act the idiot and play along with everything." Pausing, he surveys my blank expression—I can do little more than suppress my rising hate. "What? You don't know? I knew you were lying about the lantern and Boston, but I had orders not to be there when you found the loot."

"Did you count on Sadusky's crew showing up?" I say with a hint of pride.

"Actually, no," he says, shaking his head. "Bloody idiots had no clue who I was, so it was prison for me. If Nate and Chester had gotten me out right after my incarceration, it would have been a little too fishy for my tastes."

Towards the end his words sound far away as a distant memory roars to the forefront to occupy my consciousness. I had thought nothing of it at the time, but now—

We sat across from each other in the dark room, silent after my testimonial. Sadusky's fingers lolled on the extra, previously unseen levers of the ocular device while other agents bustled about around us.

_In the midst of my revelation about the device, one made a stray comment, at the time ignored…_

"_It appears 'Ian Howe' may be a false identity."_

Of course they wouldn't have known—only Ingram and Burr do. But this also means that this Theo guy from Olympia's off the hook and we're back to square zero on leads about the death of Riley's mother…but then again…

"Carl." Back out of my daze, I am able to return their stares. "You killed Carl Newman."

"Your point?" Burr says incredulously. "I was going in that day to spring Charlie out, and I was using my usual alias when I visit—his 'brother,' Michael. But that kid kept asking me about the whereabouts of my German secretary or something and was threatening to call the authorities since he was so unconvinced of who I was. So I took him out." Rolling his eyes, he readjusts the strap on his messenger bag to his other shoulder.

Unbelievable—this is all too cold, too evil for God's sake. And still the question remains, beating me over the head with fiery lead bricks:

Where's Riley?

"But Ben, after all this," Ian (I cannot get used to calling him Charlie). "I thought you would have been bright enough to figure out something was amiss. I know I would be suspicious if some random man approached me with infinite funds and manpower right…and especially after information helping you figure out Charlotte was literally left on your doorstep. But no—you were a bit oblivious…and if I may be so bold, _desperate_, mate."

Suddenly the line of soldiers ripples as they lose their footing and stumble. Murmurs echo from the back lines.

"What, are you Australian now?" I quip before I can stop myself; Riley must have figured out how to speak through me.

The idea is strangely comforting until I realize Ian has grabbed me by the shirtfront and yanked me close, sneering with his silver handgun jammed into my temple.

"I'm not so sure this is a time to be cracking jokes, Ben."

"Let me go, Ian." My voice holding more conviction than I actually possess, my hands begin to shake slightly, even more when the click of the gun loading dully echoes in my ears.

"A, it's Charlie. And B, why should I? This isn't a normal situation for you, anyway—forgive me if I'm wrong, but what information can you use as a bargaining chip? There's no hidden clue about the Silence Dogood letters this time around."

Roughly he lets go of my shirt and throws me to the ground; although the grass is more cushion than the rocky path, the dry earth jars my head as it makes contact. A pained groan escapes my lips while I sit up.

"This time," he repeats, glaring. "Your bravado doesn't pay off." Even his trademark sneer has been wiped off his face, where dirt from the air has stuck to the sweat along his messy hairline.

"Come on," I sigh, still on the ground. "Don't do this. I have Sadusky on my speed dial; he'll alert the president—"

And in a flash he's on his knees beside me, gun gone from his hand, whispering. "Ben," he chuckles. "I don't think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation."

As my mind's eye momentarily shows Trinity Church, I barely notice as his hand crawls into his pocket and fishes something out. What could he be talking about? I know what's going on, the entire scheme, all the details—

And then I see what's gripped in his fist, and my heart stops.

Shining in the bright sunlight, burning a radiant yellow, is the orb.

He has Riley.

"You need to recognize when you have no more cards to play." His whispers gaining volume until it's a raucous laugh, he stands and holds the stone high above his head.

"Where is he?" I cry, also standing and running towards him as he returns closer to the crowd. "_Where is he?_"

Again the line of soldiers shudders and more mutterings waft from the throng, but I don't take any of it in. My glare is for Ian only.

"Dammit, Ian—"

"Charlie," he says in a bored tone.

"—tell me where he is!"

"Really, Gates," he sighs, loading his pistol again. "Your self-righteousness is not helping your predicament. Why should I tell you anything?" He examines the shiny plating, occasionally rubbing out a smudge, as I continue to stare him down. "But do you honestly need me to tell you?"

Somehow the answer is staring me straight in the face, but I can't figure it out. How can it be so obvious? Riley could be anywhere—they have the orb, but…think, Ben! Now is not the time to waffle!

"_Yes, Dave, I go to the International House of Pancakes to eat waffles. It's _not _that weird."_

Between a laugh and a choke is the sound that emanates from my mouth, and it surely attracts a perked eyebrow or two from my hostile audience, who again rustles with poor balance. Are people falling over from heat exhaustion in those uniforms, or…?

Wait—oh no.

"Riley!" My voice travels over the helmeted heads of the infantry until it dies in the wall of plants. Both relief and cold fear fills me as their ranks oscillate more forcibly than before. "Let him go!"

"And how exactly are you going to make me do that, Ben?" Ian yells, and very loudly so everyone—including Riley—can hear him.

"Ben?"

Terror, panic, and a smidgen of conflicted relief colors his lone outcry, the soldiers wavering even more as he makes his struggle in the center of the crowd.

"Good job," Burr jeers. "Took you long enough."

"Ben, _run_, don't bother with me; they've got the orb, save yourself—" Cut short by a gasp of pain, I hear him mutter loudly, curses breaking his sentences into parts, as he contends with the abuse. My eyes burn.

"Let him go, Ian!" I plead.

"How many times _must_ I tell you?" he shouts. "It's _Charlie_!"

"What did he ever do to you? What?" I shout back as the noise and din rises to unforeseen levels; the soldiers yell as well against what I assume is the struggling Riley.

"Ben, stop being stupid; just _go_!" he cries from the back.

"Yes, Ben. Listen to your friend for once," Ian says simply.

"So you can kill him as soon as my back's turned?" I say menacingly. "I don't think so."

Riley's struggling is still very audible, even from a distance, though his exact words are jumbled in the close, stuffy air. This is killing me—I can feel my chest being ripped apart at the seams as the edges of my eyes continue to sting. And through all this agony, Ian smirks. If those assault rifles weren't deadly, I'd push through myself to find him…if only my single plan wasn't so completely futile!

"Oh no, Ben," Ian says. "I'd never be that rude." So now killing someone is just rude? Must have missed that memo.

The man seems absolutely oblivious to the pain behind him, instead smiling all the way—he even adds a content sigh.

"This sadism is disgusting," I yell at him. "You've had your fun and certainly have done enough to him. _Let him go!_"

Consistently as we argue, Riley's pleas for not mercy but for me to flee radiate like background music, forcing my volume and anger up to dangerous levels. Clearly, its incessant nature is pushing every one of Ian's buttons.

"_Shut him up!_" he shouts, whirled around, then turning back with an almost smirk.

"Ben, please—" Suddenly his phrase is chopped short and for a moment the clearing is devoid of all sound—

A single gunshot pierces the void.

And time stops, or it seems to—the constant buzzing of insects has ceased, the blowing of the sparse wind, and the dripping of sweat. In one millionth of a second, I stand immobile as my sweat runs cold and my eyes see black.

The next thing I know, I'm pinning Ian violently to the ground, hot tears swirling with the frozen perspiration—his face is twisted with pain from his shattered nose. My own fist is sore from clenching so hard and is drenched in a liquid very warm and very crimson. Ears deaf momentarily in these realizations, I soon realize I'm screaming at him too.

"YOU KILLED MY BROTHER!" I've latched onto this phrase and can't seem to let it go—but that's fine, perfectly fine…all I want right now is for Ian to feel every bludgeon of anguish that ever flowed through Riley's veins.

I can't even think straight; I know the soldiers and Burr are standing back, aghast, as my rage evolves into injuries on Ian's frame. The rips that had begun to unravel finally do, creating invisible slices of grief on my being. When will I wake up? When will I wake up? This can't be happening, God, no—

"YOU KILLED HIM!" I continue to scream as though my mouth and brain are disconnected. "You ruined his life, you scarred him, and you put him through misery that aged him well past his twenties! And for what? For some damn debts the French are a hundred years late in paying? You're _sick_—you're all _sick_!" Without realizing it, I had grabbed Ian by the shoulders and hoisted him up so we were eye to eye, but now the last thing I want is him in close proximity. I throw him back to the tough earth while I scramble shakily to my feet.

"Go to _hell_! Go to hell, because I never want Riley to ever have to deal with the likes of you again!" I grab my head, which has grown heavy with my perpetual crying, and try to catch my breath. Oddly enough it's not silent; the soldiers are mumbling angrily among themselves, and one points over to where Burr has been standing. He's fumbling with something, and it's gleaming…

A dull crack sounds as a rock strikes his cheek and he drops his pistol. In the crowd, one group of the men looks furious.

"You said we were down here 'cause France was trying to expand this colony into Suriname!" one says indignantly.

"Are you seriously going to believe this guy?" Burr half-laughs. "He just decimated ol' Charlie's mug." Silence and more glares face him as he fumbles to retrieve his gun, which he finishes loading and points straight at me. Surprisingly, my heart rate does not fluctuate. "He's a threat."

"Put the gun down, Burr," the same man continues, loading his much larger weapon.

"Tr-traitor!"

"Hypocrite."

The amoeba of a mob morphs, extending a flexible arm toward the agent, gun still pointed at me. Numb, I don't move an inch; the only thing I'm capable of is watching in hopes that this spectacle will, for a moment, make me forget the horrors of what just occurred.

Their shouts grow until Burr's feeble defenses can no longer be heard. On the other side of the field, the remaining soldiers seem to be making a similar beeline in my direction, only…

In my absent fascination with Burr's deserved predicament, I failed to notice the real mob-like situation developing on a more general scale: the immense multitude of men is roaring with who knows what sort of negative emotion, some racing to Burr, others to me, and the rest retreating to the boundary on the opposite side of this clearing. People rush past me left and right, and still all I do is stand there.

Until, of course, I note how Ian has climbed to his feet and has begun to stagger over, fingers fiddling on his handgun and the mob behind him. With each step he takes I feel my loathing skyrocket even further into the highest reaches of the universe—nose only a grotesque, clumsy oval of dried, flaky blood, even still he holds a smirk in his mouth and blackening eyes.

Holy Lord, I beat him to a _pulp_.

"C'mon, Gates," he says, sounding like he has a mouthful of cotton. "What was that for?"

He shouldn't have said that. "I should have done this a long time ago," I mumble, then flat-out slamming him right in the nose, or…where it would be. Though I guess my comment was a little off, considering I already punched him a few minutes ago, but I don't remember it at all. Doesn't count.

Instead of falling back a bit before recovering his balance, he straight crumples to the ground and stays there, immobile. The greater part of the soldiers is getting nearer.

Did I just…?

"Oh my god," I exclaim with guilt and a hint of worry. "I killed him!"

"Nah, dude," one young soldier says as he passes. "That was me." And sure enough when I use my foot to roll his heavy form over onto its back, there is a small red blot by the spine. I turn around to thank the kid, but he's already run past, lost in the sea of heads. Others speak to me, though.

"Let's get out of here."

"Why're you just standing around?"

"C'mon!"

"Yeah, before Burr gets loose."

Burr—my head snaps back in the other direction, where a tight circle has formed around the agent. Flying into the air is his knapsack, which comes undone as it tumbles haphazardly. With the flap open, its contents spill and fall with a crinkly splat. I rush to ut as fast as my shaken legs can carry me.

In the meantime, the men must succeed with destroying Burr, as the group quickly disperses and leaves his battered being curled on the ground.

Congratulations, Ben. You started an uprising.

The majority of the division has fled already—the clearing, or battlefield, really, lays strewn with discarded accessories and leaders. No where do I see a sign of Riley's body—they must have carried it off towards the back, or hidden it.

As fresh tears spring to my eyes, I collapse to the cracking earth alongside the bound set of papers. My blurred vision can barely decipher the words printed on the sheets.

"Um…sir?"

I wipe my eyes enough so I can make out the newcomer's features—another soldier. "Yeah?"

"You seem a little…" Stopping mid-sentence, I assume he's reworking his approach. "Do you need help getting back into town?"

I don't answer; my attention and cleared eyesight is directed at the packet that I can now read—"Correspondences and Plan of Action for Operation Lost Funds." Flipping through it, I notice how unbelievably long it is, probably well over four hundred pages, and full of everything from Riley's grade transcript from the university in Riyadh and my family tree to detailed messages from Ahmed's organization.

Proof just fell from the heavens.

In my very short-lived spurt of excitement, I really don't care that I'm covering the front and back covers with fingerprints of Ian's blood. As soon as relief washes through me does the sinking ship of reality make port once more.

Who cares if there's proof now? Riley's dead for God's sake. It might clear his name, but it can't make up for the inordinate amount of wrongs in his past.

"Sir?"

"Sorry," I sigh, sniffing. "Give me a minute."

He nods. After a while he asks tentatively, "Excuse me, but, uh…are you Ben Gates?"

"Yes," I reply with a dead tone.

"And, uh…was that really your brother that they…?"

Though it's straining in my shaken state, I look up at him, staring for a good three seconds before I nod definitively.

"I wasn't aware that you had a brother, sir," he admits quietly.

Nor did I, for I was so blind to overlook it.

Outstretching his hand, the man lifts me to my feet and lends his shoulder to assist me in regaining my balance. In doing so I gain a view of my shoes and stop cold. On the arduous trek up, something must have gotten snagged on my left shoe. My shoelace is broken.

"It's a bad omen."

Releasing my grip on the man's arm, I forget all rage, anger, and spite and fall to my knees. And for the first time in a long time, I pour my soul out in heartbroken sobs.

XXX

**I know you hate me right now: I recognize this. But please—KEEP READING. **

**Please review and vent all you want. Seriously. **


	31. Chapter 31

**You officially win for deciding to keep reading. I don't know what you win, maybe an insanely, incredibly long chapter by my normal standards, but yeah. You just win, OK? (smiles and dodges any grieved attack by fellow Riley fangirls)**

**Disclaimer: Let me spell it out…this. Does not. Belong. To. Me. **

**_Chapter 31_**

A long time passes before I can take an unstuttered breath not hindered by my convulsing emotions. Sure, they're still convulsing—I just had my eyes run dry. Tops of my thighs damp from tears, I slowly unfold myself from the strange position I twisted myself into, with my back doubled over and my chin tucked close to my chest as far as it will go. My arms move disjointedly after clutching my sides for so long.

Briefly I wonder were I am—so scalding and sticky with sweat and tears, with sorrow ravaging my insides. It doesn't take more than a second for my crying-fogged brain to remember it all.

Riley.

Dead.

Shakily I try to rise to my feet, but stumbling soon overtakes my attempts. A strong grasp pulls me up by the elbow—the soldier's still here after all this time.

"I've got you, sir," he grunts, making sure I'm stable before moving his hand to my shoulder. "Are you feeling better?" His expression shows he doubts the necessity of the question.

"No."

"I'm sorry this had to happen," he murmurs as we begin to traverse back to the dirt path. Although my steps are much more steady, he doesn't remove his hand.

"Did you see him at all?" I croak, shade returning to mercifully block the sun.

He doesn't respond immediately. "No, I was further away. It was chaos—very few of us knew what was going on, that is, until you and Green started yelling."

My one glistening bit of hope dims—it was a long shot, but I couldn't pass up asking. I just want to find him.

I never got to say goodbye.

At the thought, more moisture blurs my vision and I almost trip on a stone. Why does it have to be this way? He never hurt anyone, never intentionally. Does that deserve the life he was forced to lead, one of pain, lies, and constant confusion and uncertainty? What ever happened to karma?

"Watch yourself, sir," the man says, steering me clear of a large vine.

"Thanks," I mumble, though probably incoherently. Making sense is one the bottom of my list of priorities.

"…_looks like that the only direct access is through security," he said with a point to his screen._

"_That should be fun."_

Fun plans? When was the last time that happened, when plans weren't accompanied by a looming fear of devastation for not only ourselves but the rest of the nation? "Fun" isn't a word I'm used to—it sounds foreign to my ears. What is "fun" anyway?

If I asked Riley, he would have probably responded with some senseless song from Spongebob about ukuleles and cherries or something; however irritating the tune might be, I'd give anything to hear it.

"_Are you saying there's a treasure map on the Statue of Liberty?"_

Or to see that smile again. Why did his last moments have to be so full of terror? And at that, one so bad he couldn't even crack a joke about it…

"_OK…who wants to go down the creepy tunnel inside the tomb first?"_

"Sir, do you need to sit down?" Panicky—why is the soldier panicky? I brush my cheek lightly with my free hand and it comes away soaking. Only then do I realize I'm halfway falling over; the man's strong grip is the lone force keeping me up.

"No, no," I sigh, readjusting myself. "Is it much further?" It better not be.

"I don't think so," he says with a hint of relief—most likely that I'm not about to collapse and take him down with me. "We're almost close enough to call a cab." As he says this, I notice we're no longer hiking in the forest and have instead been walking on the dirt path from Cayenne. "Where are you staying?"

"…I don't have a hotel."

"How long have you been down here?" he asks, clearly worried.

"Since this morning," I mutter. "And honestly I want to get out of here tonight, if possible."

"Understandable," he agrees. Although his voice has calmed, the grip of his on my shoulder does not falter. "However…there's only one flight to Washington per day. I'll help you find someplace."

Wonderful—I have to stay in this hellhole for an extra twenty-four hours. Sure, if this were a vacation, this would probably be a rather pretty place, but to me the trees might as well catch on fire and pelt me with brimstone. I don't think I would care if they did.

Once we reach the edge of the city, taxis seem to overrun the place. An unoccupied one sits, stalled, by the sidewalk before us. And as much as I protest, the man won't let me pay the fare. It's quite stupid, really—soldiers don't get paid all that well, and I…finder's fee could pay for the _taxi_ a hundred times over.

_"One percent, one stinkin' percent. Half a percent, actually…one percent…"_

Yes Riley, one percent, I think while trying to stop the waterworks from returning full-fledge. My efforts were doomed from the start—tiny droplets leak over my eyelids. The deluge is slow but constant.

"Where were you before?" the man inquires when the taxi starts venturing further into town.

"There were so many places," I say, vaguely aware that my vocal cords are vibrating. Whether or not I'm actually voicing my thoughts or just thinking them is beyond me. "There was Rome and Riyadh, Damascus…Bangkok, and all over home, too, in Olympia and Phoenix and a tiny little place called Bedford in Virginia. I don't know exactly—things happened so quickly and we were never in a place for too long." Am I making sense? "But we were so many places emotionally, I never knew where to begin. One moment I was fearing for my life—the next, he saved me in a way so…bizarre that if we hadn't been in so much danger I would've fallen over laughing."

_"I HATE FROSTED FLAKES!"_

"It's never going to be the same," I choke. "So now I don't even know where I'm _going_, much less where I was…"

A tense silence follows and he stares, biting his lip, at his clasped hands. "I, uh…meant where you had been hanging out before going into the forest." He says all this very quickly as if to cut down on its embarrassing awkwardness.

"Oh. Sorry," I mumble, returning my gaze to the window. I see myself reflected in the glass and hurriedly turn away.

"Don't be. Talking is good."

"But to answer your question," I sigh. "I was in a café by the center of town."

"The one with the tables outside, sir?" I nod. "I know which one you're referring to." Leaning up to the driver, he murmurs the name of the restaurant in what is probably very well-spoken French—this guy can do anything. "It'll be a few more minutes."

"Thanks, really."

For the rest of the ride we sit, silent; occasionally he'll make a move like he wants to say something but then reconsiders. Small talk is probably wasted on me, any talk really. Every time I open my mouth—or think of saying anything—an all-too vivid flashback bombards my senses. Just a few minutes ago I was about to make a comment about all the street vendors—

"_I'm a sucker for soft pretzels, and who _knew_ they'd have some in a Bangkok airport terminal?"_

Poor doomed little pretzel, fated to be squished under the wheel of a rickshaw. Poor doomed little hacker, fated to be squished under the thumb of a conspiracy.

I almost start to cry again, but I force it under. The sorrow and grief wage war on my stomach and ribcage, the arsonists that they are.

"Mr. Gates? We're here."

So it seems—the café has returned, all the customers going about their daily business without regard to the world-wrenching alteration. People laugh, toast with glasses slick with condensation, and partake in local dishes. Contentment colors their cheeks as smiles brighten the stifling atmosphere. All of a sudden it seems so alien.

I climb out of this vehicle and ask for a table—or, the man asks for a table for me, in the process explaining my lingual handicap.

"I'm going to look around close by for an inn sir," he says by the entrance. "Just stay here, try to breathe, and don't do anything rash." The last part he says slowly and with much emphasis—to him I must look like the poster child for rash actions, especially in this state. Not that I blame him. But in the back of my head, I can hear Riley's response:

"_It's a lost cause, man. He does rash stuff even when he's _not_ emotionally distressed."_

Smiling at my imaginings, I nod, thank him once more, and follow the hostess into the actual building of the restaurant (as all the tables outside are full). Only in one of the back corners is there one open.

"Person be back," she says with some worry; I nod understandingly before she hurries off to find someone who can speak English.

Finding myself in a bustling establishment like this is much more distracting than stumbling along on that rocky path, where the dull pain of a stubbed toe added to the mountain of agony exploding in my heart. Here, only the peak can bother me—not even the heat's an issue with this cranking air conditioning.

Sighing, I pull Riley's book out of my inside jacket pocket, the "freakishly large" one as Abigail had put it—

Abigail. And Sadusky. They don't know.

That's one conversation I would rather avoid at the moment, having just completed a makeshift dam to hold back the flood down my face. Maybe I should just send a text message.

But that's still one text message I would also rather avoid. My fingers still haven't gotten a grip on themselves—not that I expected them to—so the typing is going to be even more cumbersome than usual.

Hopefully Abigail hasn't _completely_ broken her cell phone, since Sadusky I know doesn't have any sort of text message capacity…the week before Riley left…

"_Hey Sadusky," Riley called in from the kitchen as the agent walked in, laden with some grocery bags. "Did you pick up my Caribou Coffee bars?"_

_Sadusky's face clouded over with confusion. "No, sorry, I don't remember you telling me."_

"_I sent you a text message."_

"_A what?"_

OK, to Abigail, then. What can I say? Whether or not I should be blunt or beat around the bush I'm not sure, but these sorts of communications aren't so lenient when I comes to length. Though I really wish I could pour my heart out into the thing…I honestly, in any other situation, would prefer an actual conversation, but her reaction's only going to throw me back into insanity, and that kind man isn't here to aid me.

"_Though if you did want to write a long note," _Riley, in the back of my head, says. _"I think we'd be here for a year."_

True—so blunt it is. And even over the few words my fingers peck out on the miserably tiny buttons do I begin to sputter a bit on my breathing.

"_Riley's dead. I was too late. Details later. Be home tomorrow on next flight."_

As the device gives an electronic beep of success, I throw it back in my pocket. The second word was the hardest…turning my back on reality sounds so appealing right now it isn't even funny—that way, Riley could be alive, well, happy. He and Caroline would be together and everything would be fine.

"Sorry for the wait." Looking up, I see a waiter standing by my table. "We had to switch around some things…anyway—are you all right, monsieur?" As always, the perceptive ones are drawn to me; or perhaps I'm such a mess that anyone can guess that something's wrong.

"Uh…yeah," I say unconvincingly. "I'll just have some water."

"OK, monsieur…one water…" He makes a note on his ticket and departs, casting one glance over his shoulder. In very little time he returns and adamantly insists on me eating something—"monsieur, it's almost two in the afternoon!"—but I adamantly insist that I'm fine. With a frustrated yet resigned sigh, he backs off and goes to check on his other tables.

Sucking down half the glass in one chug, I crack open Riley's book to my little bookmark, a weathered Post-It note soft with age, holding an amusing note from Riley—a relic of the pre-Charlotte explosion days.

"_In case you were wondering, it was _Ian_ who ate the last chocolate-chip muffin."_

Ian _would_.

On the other side of the square is the beginning of chapter five—"The Men in Black: It's Not Just a Movie." I try to immerse myself in the information like I usually do, but his writing is just like having him speaking to me, it's so similar, and that just sends my grief through the roof. But I keep reading; some words may be blurred with wrinkly pages by the time I'm through, but I'm going to keep on. Not reading his book even after his death would be the ultimate dishonor.

Hours pass—or it seems like it. The helpful soldier is still out looking for a place for me to stay the night. I put chapters behind me and splotches on the page as my drink empties and the ice melts. Often the waiter looks as if he's about to approach me, but decides to leave me be—except now.

"Monsieur, have a coffee," he says, setting the steaming mug before me.

"Thank you," I say. "But I'm really not—"

"You've been here three hours," he continues. "And honestly you don't seem 'fine.' Drink: it's on the house, all right?"

I open my mouth to thank him, but his attention gets distracted by one of his peers rushing up behind him and murmuring hastily in his ear.

"Il y a quelqu'un à la porte…" I don't catch much else, not that I know what that part means, anyway. Though I can still read expressions, and the first waiter definitely seems a little puzzled—a feeling I soon share when they start eyeing me.

Once the second man leaves, the first turns back to me and says, "Bernard has told me that there has been a man wandering about from building to building looking for a Ben Gates and has just come here. Forgive me, monsieur, if I am wrong, but is that you?" Brow creased with perplexity and slight concern, he subtly points at me.

"Um…yeah," I say absently, mind racing. The soldier from before knows where I am, so this can't be him searching for me. But who…? Well, unlike Riley's mother I have quite a few enemies who want me dead, especially after what happened today. Lead block poisoning my blood stream, the conclusion reaches me very suddenly.

Ingram—I thought it was odd that only Burr and Ian were at the clearing; the third head had to be in the vicinity, no doubt. And no doubt he's heard what's become of his two companions. And no doubt he wants to kill me. And no doubt he'd hurt all these bystanders to do so.

"Is there a back exit or something I can use?" I say hurriedly, voice quavering, as I collect my things.

"Uh, no—there's just the one in the front by the patio where the man is," he says, anxious.

I'm dead, though somehow that's not as bothersome as it should be. In my pocket, yet another electronic beep of a received message sounds, something I've tried to ignore over the past three hours. Abigail's probably worried, now. I'll get to that later, once I can sit and think clearly, away from the danger…

The waiter tagging close behind me as I attempt to navigate through the labyrinth of rooms, I keep my eyes peeled for any signs of Ingram's balding head. This simple task becomes increasingly difficult—more waiters and waitresses rush by, some with trays piled high with food, and customers edge past as well…and there are so many rooms! I know I've been here before; that painting looks familiar. But I don't remember that exotic plant over there. Have I gotten turned around again? Of all the times…

At last the entrance is visible, stuffy, close heat drifting in from outdoors. Clutching Riley's book to my chest like a life (and sanity) preserver, I accidentally bump my shoulder into one of the people by the hostess stand. Can't stop for apologies now—

"Ben?"

My muscles for some odd reason freeze and even the ceaseless restaurant clatter seems to muffle to more tolerable levels. As I stand, frozen in half-stride, my heart rate quickens and just the grip on his book begins to twitch.

"Ben…?" the voice says again cautiously. It sounds familiar—my brain, if it could do such things, almost feels like it's shaking its head in denial. Denial of what? I can't place it—

So awkwardly I finally turn completely around: it's the guy I bumped into. Even in this sweltering heat, he's got a faded blue-gray long sleeve T-shirt on with long, baggy jeans and beat-up shoes. His hair is dark, sort of grungy from the humidity, and much, much lighter at the roots. On his left cheek is a long slender gash running from his ear to his mouth that has only just begun to clot. But despite all this, one look into his eyes give me more than enough to identify him.

"But…" I start slowly. "You're dead, Riley." I'm staring at a ghost—this can't be him.

"I, uh…don't feel dead," he murmurs, gazing up at me.

"They shot you—I heard them, I heard them kill you in that field…Ingram's men, and then…" Rambling returning in full force, I let my voice fade out as emotions crash in like a tsunami—tears break through my temporary levee. Although I try to blink them back, that only pushes them down my face.

This worries him—he clutches his forehead with his hand and takes a step toward me, breathing heavily. "I know, Ben, I know that's what it looked like. I found out they wanted to provoke you into attacking them so they could have an excuse to kill you…that's why I wanted you to run. They faked it, Ben! I'm alive," he says, shaky with who knows what flowing through him.

As he steps closer, it _almost_ seems more real—denial is still prevalent in my veins and roots my feet to the ground. Riley isn't dead? A slow bubble of something positive rumbles beneath the ocean of sorrow I've been drowning in.

"Ben," he says again, this time walking within a few feet of me and grasping my shoulders. "I'm alive."

Ghosts can't touch people.

He's here—he's really alive.

With a strangled cry of "Thank God!" I envelop him in a firm embrace, burying my head into his shoulder as I let the rivers flow, this time for relief and joy. His face resting in the folds of my jacket, I feel him shudder as his eyes leak as well. Even with the warmth of this hold, the stifling heat doesn't bother me.

My world has just been uncollapsed.

"Dammit, Riley, I thought I lost you," I mutter through my shaky breaths.

"I know, I know—I'm so sorry, Ben!"

I pull back just enough so I can see his face, obscured by dirt and sweat and tears as it is and only within about five inches of my own. "You have nothing to be sorry about. _I'm_ sorry: I was a jerk—"

"_I _ran away, worried you to death, almost got _you_ killed—don't think I didn't see Burr and Green about to shoot you!" His index finger extended to a point, it taps my nose in the close space. "I was being stupid, careless, rash—"

"You were acting like me!" I laugh…laughter. I almost forgot what it sounds like.

"Not nearly, Ben! You're ten times cooler when you do it; I'm just stupid."

"Don't call yourself stupid, Riley!" I murmur intensely, hand on his cheek. "'Stupid' is an adjective that belongs to a lot of people but it could never, ever apply to you."

At this, he takes a minute to respond, an unsure smile hidden behind a veil. "Even if I said George Washington saved Apollo 13?"

"Yes," I chuckle. "Even if you said George Washington saved Apollo 13."

My hand drops to his shoulder, and his gaze to the floor. That uncertain smile is still playing around, undecided one whether to fully manifest itself. "Did you…" he begins quietly. "Did you really mean what you said back there?"

"Back where?"

"When you like…_attacked_ Green after you thought they shot me. You kept yelling it over and over…" He can barely look up—whether from embarrassment or uncertainty I don't know.

"Yes."

Now he meets my gaze, and quickly too. "R-really?"

"You asked me a while ago what you are to me. It just…" I sigh. "It just took me a little long to answer."

And he smiles, and it's one of those great smiles that I thought I was never going to see again, that conked fear and sorrow on the head with a metal pole. More joy streams down my face and into my grinning mouth—it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted, this ecstasy.

With a sigh, I wrench him back to me once more and rest my chin on his head. "You need to redye your hair," I whisper, gazing at the orange-ish roots.

"It was the only thing I forgot when I left," he says, muffled.

"Things are going to be better for you now," I murmur after a moment. "I promise."

We part, wiping our eyes and sniffing, as we come to the conclusion that a whole lot of people are blatantly staring at us. There is very little clink of fork on dishware, and even less chatter. In retrospect, I guess this _was_ a pretty public place for a reunion. Oh well—they can get over it, really.

While Riley shoots the lunch-goers looks of "yeah, OK, go back to your sandwiches," my pocket jingles quite loudly with yet another text message from Abigail.

"Who could possibly be texting Ben Gates?" he asks, laced with a chuckle.

"Abigail or Sadusky, possibly my parents…" I sigh, finally getting my phone out of my fiendishly large pocket.

"You texted them the news?"

"Yeah, to Abigail. This is the, uh…" I squint to read the message counter on the screen. "Forty-seventh one in the past few hours."

He snorts. "That's ominous."

My next sigh catching with a laugh, I exchange glances with him, and his is mischievous, one of those looks that worries me—but in a good way. "You should be the one to call them."

"That will be _rather_ fun, if I do say so myself," he says, clapping me on the shoulder. "What do you have there?" He motions to his book, front cover facing away from him, by my side. "Summer reading?"

Raising my arm, I flash the cover and again his face is lit up with a small grin. "No…" I say, trying to remember what month we're in (December, is it?). "It's make-up work."

X

"_I like to see people reunited, maybe that's a silly thing, but what can I say, I like to see people run to each other, I like the kissing and the crying, I like the impatience, the stories that the mouth can't tell fast enough, the ears that aren't big enough, the eyes that can't take in all the change, I like the hugging, the bringing together, the end of missing someone…" (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer)_

XXX

Of our escapade in French Guiana, I have two regrets. One: I never got to hit Ian nearly as much as I wanted to. Upon my telling him who Ian really was, Riley balked and not ten seconds later was laughing like a maniac. Later after that spell wore off, he told me that in different circumstances, seeing me "beat the crap out of" Ian would be the most entertaining thing he's ever seen. I myself think there has to be something more amusing; he disagreed wholeheartedly.

Regret two: I never found the name of the kind soldier. He arrived back at the café about twenty minutes after Riley showed up but only had enough time to drop the hotel information by the hostess. It's people like that who remind me that not everyone's like Ingram.

Non-regret one: I let Riley call Abigail and subsequently saved myself from some hearing loss, as I would have been stupid enough to hold the phone to my ear when I told her the good news. Having a bit more foresight, Riley greeted her hastily and immediately held the phone at arms length.

We could still hear her.

But now, as Riley receives his well-deserved homecoming back at the house, I have one more matter of business to attend to so this final issue will once and for all be resolved.

I guess I'm very fortunate in that I know so many people high up, so my wanderings don't garner _too_ much attention. Of course, there'll always be the guy in dark glasses glaring at me from off in a corner, but that's to be expected. I'm Ben Gates—security people fear me.

My fingers hesitate on the shiny doorknob, running over the smooth surface as those on my other hand play with the pages. I hope he doesn't mind that I'm not knocking—

So I open the door.

"Mr. President."

His gaze flicks up from his paperwork as he sets his pen down carefully. "Gates," he says curiously. "I'm surprised you got up here in one piece. Did Craig give you any trouble?"

"No, sir." I stand before his desk, clutching the large bound booklet that was once in Chester Burr's possession. Silence penetrates the impressive office.

"What do you need?" he asks slowly, eyebrows raised. "Something with the page?"

"No, sir." As I lay the booklet on top of his work, his eyebrows rise further into his forehead. "I have something you need to take a look at."

XXX

**Ta-da. See? Riley's fine (your many denials saved him from the brink of death. Kind of.). Everyone's fine. Except for Ian, but…yeah. (Whew, that was a long one…) One more chapter plus the epilogue to go, amazingly enough.**

**It'd be really, really nice if you could review. **


	32. Chapter 32

**Thank you much for the many electronic hugs! (hugs back) And now for a lighter chapter (I know…this story, a light chapter? That hasn't really happened since chapter 15).**

**Disclaimer: I, BandGeek58407, own no rights having to do with National Treasure or anything of the sort. I just happen to have an overactive, obsessive imagination. **

**_Chapter 32_**

Let me just clarify one thing very quickly: I am extremely uncomfortable in huge mega-stores. It's not that the tile floors, fluorescent lights, and convenience bothers me, but rather the _crowds_; everybody loves to come here and do hours upon hours of necessity shopping. And frankly, everyone also loves to constantly bombard me with fan-like interrogations. So unfortunately, while these crowds have the opportunity to return to their homes after an hour or two, Abigail and I stay much, much longer, given the start-stop form of our perusing.

I offered to wear a full-face ski mask to avoid this problem. She promptly shot the idea down, remarking how some paranoid clerk would think I was going to steal something. Me, steal something? It's not like Walmart has a Declaration of Independence (or do they?), but I still had to leave the mask at home.

And people continue to bother us.

"Ben," she says, examining a rack of items. "Do you like the blue or silver streamers better?"

"Either's fine," I sigh with a cautious glance around. "Really."

"Ben, I know how much you hate this place, but come on," she says pushily. "This is his first holiday as a cleared man."

This is true—CNN broadcasted the full "breaking news" report only a few days ago, causing quite a stir in the media everywhere. Cameras caught the arrest of Nathaniel Ingram live, while the ticker tape below told of his replacement, none other than Sadusky. Though he says he had nothing to do with it, the president said he did admire the agent's character in stepping down after that fateful, enlightening meeting, so personally I believe he pulled a string or two.

Riley, on the other hand, has received more publicity than he knows what to do with: his book sales have skyrocketed, _Time_ magazine wrote another cover story on it, and the whole thing has been dubbed "Riley-gate." I don't think he has left the house since the report; in part, that was the impetus behind Sadusky taking him to a movie (he too was denied the ski mask), the other reason being why Abigail and I are currently in Hell-mart.

"So?" she says, eyebrow raised.

"Are you angry?"

"You tell me."

"Abigail…"

"Blue or silver?"

Sighing, I pick up a roll of both and scoot over about six inches to the next rack of similarly-themed items. This is going to take a while.

"We should get some of these goofy glasses," she murmurs, picking up a particularly yellow pair in the shape of "2009," the zeros being the lenses.

"Really?"

"We're going all-out. And these"—she waves them in front of my face—"will help."

I think briefly about asking her, but I guess I'll have to see for myself what she means specifically. And into the basket goes four pairs of those spectacles. "So what's next? Confetti?"

"That's a good idea!"

Lord, we're going to be here when midnight strikes, I swear. Soon she begins to debate whether the traditional squares or the "festive" 2009-shaped type would be better.

"Abigail, I'm sure if we just showed up with a keg of champagne, he'd be just as happy."

"Already got that covered."

OK then. I busy myself scanning the shelves for other things we should steer clear of—like plastic tablecloths…they stick to me with the strange, fiendish power of static electricity, cone shaped hats (OK, maybe those would be all right), kazoos, and…sparklers.

Abigail better not see the sparklers, because I don't want an overexcited Riley burning a hole in his or anyone's face. Frankly, that's not how I wish to spend my New Year's Eve.

"Think we have enough?" she says finally after settling on the square ones.

"Yes, and most definitely."

Laughing to herself, she entwines the fingers of her free hand into mine and heads toward the register. "You're not much of a party planner, are you?"

"No, it's just that the difference between collections of assorted confetti seems a little…frivolous. No offense," I add hurriedly.

She smiles but says nothing; I'm guessing that means "none taken." Though I can't help but feel a smidge guilty—in the past, I would have at least humored her on these things, but after we returned from South America, everything is reflecting a different color in the same light.

"I'm still worried about him," I blurt suddenly.

"I know," she says softly, squeezing my hand. "Ben…"

"Hm?"

She stares off to the side for a moment, sighing a sigh that tries to say a thousand things at once. "Sometimes I think that he…well, that he needs you more than you may realize."

Before her point can even begin to sink in, she's already maneuvered over to a cashier. More than I may realize? How vague and mysterious. Maybe I will put on one of those ocular devices tonight, help with the streamers…as I follow up behind her, I can barely hide my deep sigh.

XXX

Even though the movie they went to go see ended around seven o'clock, Sadusky in all his amazing skill is able to take four hours getting home, the route involved featuring, and I quote, "a plethora of distracting, time-consuming entities." One can only imagine.

In the meantime, I think I've covered every exposed surface of the house with confetti, and mind you, that's quite a bit. And every time I open a package, it always explodes, flying everywhere and thus cutting my work in half. However, there's consistently one square that attaches itself to part of my skin, which I guess counts as an "exposed surface."

Currently a glinting square of turquoise is latched onto my jacket sleeve, the bugger.

"Hey," Abigail says, appearing in the doorway. "It's almost eleven-fifteen…do you think they're on their way?"

"Unless Riley's getting distracted by one of those distracting, time-consuming entities." I shake my arm futilely to try to rid myself of the turquoise menace.

"Stop worrying about keeping yourself confetti-free," she says, shoving a tall glass of blond-hued champagne under my nose. "It's New Year's Eve. You're _going_ to get covered in confetti." Plopping down onto the mushy sofa, she's soon surrounded by a cloud of the shiny stuff. "Have you ever seen Riley around confetti?"

"No…?"

All I receive is a tiny smirk—curiosity momentarily clouds my thoughts but the creaking of the front door opening jars me back from my imagination.

"Hey boys! We're in the living room," Abigail calls over her shoulder.

"How was the movie?" I ask once they arrive in the room.

I don't get an answer; upon seeing the glittery coating covering the place, his eyes grow wide and the corners of his mouth turn upward, and not three seconds later does he smilingly snatch up a handful of confetti and dump it on my head with a chuckle.

"Happy New Year's Eve to you too, Riley," I say, grinning.

"It is?" He seems genuinely confused. "And I thought you had just gone overboard trying to make the place more lively. Ooo, is that champagne?" And not another three seconds later does he dash off to one of the many bottles Abigail had scrounged up. Briefly the thought of his last encounter with alcohol flashes through my mind, but I shake it off. This is different.

"Ben," Abigail laughs. "Remember the last time you had champagne? At the Gala?"

"I downed it in one swig, didn't I?"

And then from both Sadusky and Riley: "_You_ did?"

Why is that so surprising? Given the circumstances, me being stressed about our little operation and all, chugging a glass of that stuff seems completely understandable—at least to me. Apparently not to everyone else.

"I bet you can't do it again," Riley taunts jokingly, waving his glass in front of my face. I notice he's hung one of those giant 2009 glasses on the collar of his jacket—the yellow contrasts blindingly on the black "FBI" hoodie, a Christmas gift from Sadusky that attracted many an ironic chuckle.

"Really?" I say, raising an eyebrow as I carefully pick up my glass from the side table. "That's funny…I was thinking you couldn't do it either."

"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Gates?" Imitating my arched eyebrow, he raises his full glass like a toast.

"All right then: you're on."

With both of us keeping one eye cracked, spying on the other as our heads arch toward the ceiling, the glasses slowly begin to drain and we slowly begin to topple over from the bad angle. At the last second we fall forward and regain some stability by grasping each other's shoulders. Both glasses are empty, save for a few spare droplets.

"Touché," he says with a smile. "Believe it or not, Talal and I threw some pretty wild parties back in Riyadh."

By now, it's got to be at least eleven-thirty and my hair occasionally rains confetti squares. And whenever that supply runs low, Riley pours a fresh batch. I think Sadusky's got one on his mustache, a pink one at that. Smushed together on the sofa, we pour more champagne, half-watching the news report from Times Square, and after about four glasses of the disappearing liquid each, those 2009 spectacles don't seem so ridiculous, and on our faces they go.

"Y'know," Riley mumbles to my right. "There's not going to be a market for these things next year…2010 doesn't easily translate into an…'ocular device.'" Sighing, he readjusts the glasses so they aren't slipping down his nose. "I don't think Benjamin Franklin invented these."

One of the hosts on the TV says something about it being eleven fifty-five, and I notice Sadusky on the far right end slumped over, his snores blowing that piece of pink confetti back and forth; and Abigail, leaning on my left shoulder, eyes fluttered shut long ago. The champagne must be taking effect.

"They're such party poopers," Riley mumbles, jerking his thumb at the others. "Who falls asleep on New Year's Eve?"

"Someone who's tired."

"Or a little hammered."

"That too."

On the screen, the New Year's Ball alights with all sorts of colors and begins to gradually descend. The enormous crowd cheers, their shouts combining into a dull roar. In our home, the only roar is Sadusky's snoring; otherwise, it's deathly silent.

Riley's head bobs a bit; trying not to jar either of them, I pull my arms from out of the sandwich between their torsos and place them around their shoulders. Her head shifts slightly and his lolls into my arm. Am I really the only one who isn't drowsy?

"How much of 2008 do we have left?" he mumbles into my shoulder.

"Mm…twenty seconds."

His breath catching in a lone chuckle, the plastic glasses fall askew and he settles himself more, sliding further down the couch and finding the perfect spot on my shoulder for his head to rest. After a quick look at Sadusky (and implying "put a sock in it"), he gazes back up at me with droopy eyelids. "You're comfortable."

"Thanks, Riley." I think he's getting a little fatigue-delirious.

"How much's left now?" he murmurs again.

"Final ten seconds."

Sleep suddenly pulling at my own eyelids, we don't join the hyped-up announcer in counting down; behind him the Ball emits bright sparks amid the flashing fuchsia, red, and orange. The huge neon 2009 bursts to life, illuminating our dark living room with light and cheers.

"_Happy New Year, folks!"_

A chorus of Aud Lang Syne rings in the background, mingling with Sadusky's snores. On my shoulder I feel more pressure from Riley's head as he inches closer to unconsciousness.

"…_who knows what 2009 will bring us?"_

"Happy New Year, Riley," I sigh, leaning back and resting my head on the back of the couch.

Mumbling something in response, he shifts further into the folds of the sofa and my jacket; only the last word was decipherable—my name. His breathing slows and his fidgets cease, all worries dispersed.

With a slow scan of the room around us, I repeat to myself, "Who knows what 2009 will bring us?" before sleep claims me as well.

XXX

For a few moments when I wake up, I can't recall why we're all mashed on the couch, laying in odd angles all over each other, and sprinkled with cheap plastic glasses. The TV is blaring softly, and my head is pounding madly.

Oh wait—it's New Year's Day. Right.

Moving my stiffened joints proves difficult to do, and in the process I think I poke Sadusky in the nose with my shoe. That's funny…I'm pretty sure Riley was in between us…where is he?

I take a quick glance to the other side to Abigail, sprawled over the opposite side of the armrest. What time is it, anyway?

Ten fifty-seven in the morning. Wow—I don't remember sleeping this late since we broke Riley out of prison.

Groggily I stumble into the kitchen, eyes half shut, and pour a small glass of water and spilling a good portion of it on the counter in my fatigued haze. Turning back around with my third-full cup in hand, I attempt to take a sip.

"Morning, sunshine."

My eyes snap open after the sudden greeting and they focus slowly on the figure sitting complacently at the breakfast table. "Oh. Hey, Riley. I didn't see you there."

"You're a hard sleeper. I think I tapped you on the face at _least_ ten times and you didn't budge," he says with a smile.

Looking over the edge of the glass, I try to sift through my sleep-and-champagne-jumbled thoughts to come up with a suitable response, but a choking attack soon halts all efforts.

"Ben, are you OK?" Riley says quickly, making to get up.

I cough for a minute and set the water down. "Riley, you…"

"I…?" Raising his eyebrows, he gives me this curious look.

"You didn't dye your hair."

One of his great smiles crosses his face before he casts his glance down for a tiny bit, tugging ever so slightly with a bit of discomfort on the short sleeves of a faded Georgetown T-shirt. Besides the vibrant orange atop his head, my eyes also fall upon his chewed-up right arm.

"H-hey…can I ask you a favor?" he says with nervousness not reflected in his face. "Could you come with me somewhere really quickly?"

"Of course."

No more questions and answers—he walks briskly to the door with me close in his wake, keys to our most inconspicuous car in his hands. He mumbles incoherently to himself as he turns the ignition, hand shaking just enough to be noticed as he shifts into drive.

"Can I ask where we're going?"

"I need some gum."

"OK…"

It's official—questions lead to more questions. As we drive the sparsely-populated streets, he constantly surveys the roadside for an open convenience store. Finally after five minutes of tense driving and muttering, he haphazardly slides into the first parking spot he lays eyes on.

"Want to come in?"

Something about the way he's staring so forlornly makes me see the implied request in his words. "Sure thing."

The doorbell clinking as we step inside, the cashier gives us a lazy nod while he awkwardly shuffles to the long rack of gum. But once he's before the many packaged varieties, his gaze cannot stay focused on anything for more than half a second—the gum the cashier, me, anything.

"OK, OK…no, spearmint tastes funny…but wintergreen…no way, that's a ski resort near the Peaks of Otter—not going there. And…ew, what sicko came up with strawberry-lime? What is this? That's not even gum…but citrus, hm…yeah, that sounds good." A yellowish package is lifted from the shelf by clumsy fingers and he continues his awkward shuffle up to the register.

I swear, I've never seen him acting this peculiar in my life.

"This going to be all, sir?" she asks with a sigh.

"No, uh…actually…can I have a lottery ticket?"

She hands him a generic slip, saying, "I'll need to see some ID, though I'm sure you're over eighteen."

Back pocket opened shakily, he fishes out a battered driver's license and hands it to the woman. He starts to bite his thumbnail, a habit I don't recall him ever possessing.

A brief scan of the old card leaves her eyes a tad wider than before, but he hastily shoves a couple crumpled bills into her hands. "Thanks!"

My, he can run quite fast when he's nervous—it's like he disappeared into thin air, only a blur of orange and gray. And it seems he remembered the gum, but not his ticket.

"Um…" the cashier says with a glance toward me. "Did he want this?"

Shrugging, I slip the piece of paper into my jacket pocket. "Thank you, ma'am." I can almost feel her eyes boring questioning holes into my back as I leave.

By the time I arrive back in the parking lot, Riley had already climbed back into the driver's seat, leaning over the steering wheel. Frankly, that's kind of alarming.

"Riley—" I start, opening the passenger door, but I stop short, anxiety fading away in a hurry.

He leans back, orange head tilted toward the lining-covered ceiling with shining cheeks and a victorious smile. And he's laughing—almost hysterically, but not quite—and shaking his head, disbelieving.

"I'm free."

XXX

**Woohoo for Riley! And Ben! And the world! Or something! (ahem) I'll have the epilogue up as soon as I can.**

**Please review!**


	33. Epilogue

**Oh my goodness, it's the epilogue! (tosses gummi bears into the air) OK. Sorry, they're these really good German ones. But it's hard to eat them because they're so chewy and my braces hurt and…I'm ranting. Sorry.**

**PS – Please vote on my profile for which story idea I should do next! The winner will most likely be posted later in the fall (around November-ish) after band season ends and after I'm done drowning in college applications.**

**Disclaimer: Nothing has changed since chapter one. National Treasure is still not mine, and Mickey Mouse is still stalking my house. (sigh)**

**_Epilogue_**

Life finally has swung back to a more normal pace, and it is proving difficult to become accustomed to. There have been no adventures, no treasure hunts, no car chases—I don't even want to _think_ about page forty-seven. Thankfully the president understands and hasn't been nagging me, not to imply that he doesn't casually inquire every so often.

And even more surprisingly, neither Abigail nor Riley has shown an interest as to the page's contents like they used to, but I don't blame them at all. They both seem content at the place we've arrived, so much like before his arrest: we eat dinner together at least four times a week (Sadusky occasionally stopping by) and Riley almost as often spends nights in his designated room. His apartment must seem very lonely.

I've actually offered more than once that he should just move in permanently, Abigail coming to my aid when he keeps sprouting this "I need to figure out logistics" excuse. After four months of us offering, one would think logistics are no longer an issue. What sort of "logistics" would there be, anyway? I doubt they're financial—I mean, really—or related with selling the place since it's in such a desired part of town. Can logistics be personal? I don't know.

But I do believe he's up to something; he just won't tell me what it is, strangely enough, much less admit that there _is_ something going on. Although secrecy is what he's good at no doubt, his game's slipped: question evasion has been clumsier, excuses more commonplace. It's very unlike him since after we arrived back from South America, and I won't let it go, even though Abigail's told me to numerous times.

Playing with one of the oranges from the fruit bowl, I run all this through my head as I sit at the breakfast table. A lot has happened around this table. Plans were made, circumstances discussed, meals served (including, of course, pot roast), coffee spit across (courtesy of Caroline after that horror film)…and now what?

"Now what?"—it seems more like a philosophy at this point than a casual question, seeing as it was always something we asked ourselves. He's out of jail—now what? We talked to Ahmed—now what? We found the treasure—now what? The issue is finally resolved—

Now what?

It's the only one with a blank answer anymore. And not much has happened that could help give it one. Our lives are almost like those of normal people, and it's downright _weird_, to be honest.

I still haven't told him about his mom. Is there ever a right time to break news like that?

It's eating me up, ravaging the salvaged ruins from the arsonists who rampaged through my system when I thought Riley was dead.

And it's Sunday afternoon and he hasn't been by all weekend. That's also not like him at all.

And _that's_ eating the leftovers from my anxiety over not telling him. Negative emotions are vultures preying on the carnage created by memories and overactive imaginations. Since his arrest in August, I must have collected an entire flock.

Suddenly I hear the door squeak open and footsteps clunk through the hallway. In the doorway soon appears Riley, clad in one of his gray suits with dark hair. I try not to let my sigh of relief make it to the surface.

"Hey, Riley," I say much less anxiously than I feel. "Where've you been all weekend?"

He takes a seat on the side of the square table nearest me. "Oh, you know…around."

Yeah, I've heard that way too many times in the past few weeks going into April to let this go. "Doing what?"

"Things."

"What kind of things?"

"Thingy things."

"Riley."

"Hi."

Did Sadusky tell him about that conversation had over the phone with him or…? I'll just chalk that up as a…hm, bizarre occurrence.

"No, really, Riley. What's up?" As his eyes gaze upwards, I immediately guess what's coming out of his mouth. "Other than the ceiling and all that," I say hurriedly before he can make a sound.

"Why?" he asks after a moment.

"I'm just curious."

"Why?"

My God, he's being worse than an overly inquisitive six-year-old. "Because…you've been acting strangely."

"As opposed to what, normal? None of us are normal, so just go ahead and accept that—"

"You know what I mean." I shoot him my trademark stare.

And he laughs; he actually laughs. Again with the jokes I seem to miss. "You think the Ben-stare still works on me? Ben, you accidentally slipped the vaccine to that in my coffee a _while_ ago." As his chuckles die out, my stare remains and he clears his throat more out of nervousness than anything.

"Well, actually," he says, much softer. "I needed you to come with me someplace this afternoon. And I swear it's not a gum run."

Something about his tone worries me. "Is…everything all right?"

"Yeah, I just…" he sighs, shrugging. "I can't do this alone."

Silence penetrates the kitchen completely, the accursed ticking clock having been replaced by a nice digital one. Front teeth resting on his bottom lip, his gaze dances around uncomfortably for a moment; my own is lost in a fog of vagueness.

I'm about to ask him if he can clarify a little as to what's troubling him, but he clears his throat in a changing-the-subject kind of way. "Uh, earlier this week I stopped by my lawyer's office."

"Really? I thought you said you were allergic to lawyers." No really—he actually claimed it on some paperwork a few years ago.

"Yeah, well, Zyrtec works wonders," he says quickly. "Anyway. I, uh…officially changed my name." His hand disappears into one of the suit's many pockets and procures a folded piece of important-looking paper.

"_Riley Andrew Poole"_

For a second, a million questions fly through my head, but they soon disappear. It's none of my business why he wanted the alteration permanent—though it must have been good enough to risk getting lawyer-hives or whatever he gets.

A confused smile momentarily flashes across his face. "What?"

Now I'm confused. "I didn't say anything."

"I know you didn't."

"Then why'd you say 'what'?"

He avoids the question again, but much more smoothly albeit noticeably—shaking his head, he rises from the table and motions toward the hallway to the front door. OK, let's just chalk _this _up as Riley being Riley.

I find him sifting through the many keys Abigail has put in a nifty key bowl, presumably debating which car we should take to wherever we're going. After hoisting the set of keys to eye level, he stares it down for three seconds before returning it and repeating the process again.

"Y'know," I start, about to suggest we take mine, but I stop after he jumps. "Are you sure you're OK?" For safe measure, I go ahead and pull my keys out and slip them in my pocket.

When he doesn't answer, I steer him toward the door, my hand on his shoulder. "I'll drive," I say, locking it behind us. "Just tell me where we're going."

"I can drive—really. I'm fine," he adds with extra emphasis, snatching my keys from my pocket quite sneakily. As he moves toward my car, he suddenly stops, turning back around. His hand reaches into another pocket and fishes out some more folded items; one speedily is shoved back in, a flash of white, while the other is painstakingly unfolded and handed to me.

"I kept it with me everywhere; can't you tell?"

Surely I can: where he's folded it time after time definite creases have formed, the color is faded, and the photo-paper is warped and distorted from water—Cibola water, Thailand water. Only after I assess its condition can I focus on the actual image.

In the background, cherry blossom trees line the sidewalk in full bloom, some petals floating in the air like pink snow. But I only have eyes for the main subjects—Riley and Caroline, three years younger, with arms wrapped around each others' shoulders, smilingly, carefree.

And to me, it's heartbreaking.

"I had proposed to her the night before," Riley murmurs as I fold it back up and place it in his hand.

"It's a beautiful picture," I assure him.

Swallowing stiffly, he nods and shuffles to the driver's side of my car. He sighs before he opens the door, and I barely move. That he's not filling me in is still acting as a bothersome poke in the side every so often. But I can't just stand here, not now when he's obviously hurting.

For the first half hour of the trip, the only sounds that permeate the warm car are the crunch of the gravel and then slow labored breaths as he maneuvers to who knows where. I expect him, nervous as he seems, to be white-knuckling it, but each glance at his grip on the wheel tells me otherwise. Not even the radio—which is normally the first thing turned on—is playing a familiar tune in the background.

In assessing the state of things, I forget to take note where we are and subsequently am absolutely lost. It looks like some sort of two-lane highway, few cars and signs populating the stretch.

"Hey, uh…Ben?" he finally says with a very forced conversational tone.

"Yeah?"

"Well, you remember the night we stole the Declaration."

As if I could forget it. "Of course," I say, arching my voice at the end with a question.

"And…uh," he continues with a fidget. "You remember how we could only find _one_ pair of latex gloves…and that you used them on the document since you didn't want to get them dirty with that chemical of Abigail's fingerprints, right?"

"Mhm…" This is really taking a turn for the bizarre, and I can't help but frown in confusion. Thank goodness he's looking at me, not the road.

"I've been wondering for a while…what _did_ you use to get her thumbprint?"

Sneaking a peek at my face for a split second, he eyes me with one of his trademark skeptical expressions. I say nothing, and the awkward silence envelops us once more. What a random question…what could possibly be so intriguing about my methods then, really?

Well, better safe than sorry. "Riley," I say suddenly. "They _do_ make latex thumbs, y'know…for medical purposes. Doctors use them all the time."

"Oh," he says with a shrug. "A-all right."

"What did you think I had used?" Seriously, I have no clue. And he seems not to want to answer me. Settling back in my seat, I sigh and stare out the window.

Cue the awkward silence—yet again.

And another ten minutes pass, much to my dismay. I was hoping to pull him out of this weird, depressed rut he's fallen into.

"I still can't believe it's over," he starts again, but much more sullenly and without all the flustered twitches.

"With your arrest?" Thank God he's talking; a quiet Riley bodes nothing good.

"Yeah. Sometimes I wake up and go to take a shower and realize I'm out of hair dye and just about have a mental breakdown before I remember it doesn't matter anymore. Or at least to the greater part of society it doesn't matter. But I can't, well…" he sighs, pausing to think. "To them, it's now nothing, but to me, it's always been everything. And it still is: my hair's still red under the chemicals, my arm still looks like it came out of a slasher movie, the past still exists. Resolution changes nothing but the future, but I really wish I could have a do-over in the past."

I digest his words carefully but receive a bout of indigestion on the last bit. Does that apply to _all_ his past, to simply press "restart" and begin anew right out of high school? Of course I'm his friend, but the temptation of avoiding all the suffering would be astronomical…

"Ben?"

"Hm?" I definitely wanted that to sound less down and more…well, "peppy" isn't the right word, but it will have to suffice.

"I didn't mean that," he says hastily. "It just sort of popped out, I swear. I'd change some things—anyone would—but…God, if I never met you, I'm sure I'd be dead."

"Riley…"

"No, Ben." With a quick glance, he takes his eyes off the road once more. The momentary stare is soberingly serious. "Not an exaggeration. If Ingram had chosen some other treasure hunter, one quite unlike you, the course of events would have been drastically changed. Not only would said course be comparatively shorter, but I would also have had to put up with an oaf who wouldn't have been nearly as much fun as you…and not nearly as good a person." He sighs, and I shift a bit, uncomfortable.

"Out of all the people I've met in my life, Ben, you stand out as the only one who I can be sure is inherently good to the core."

My shifting becomes a bit more prominent; I feel so undeserving of this heartfelt compliment. "Inherently good"? Could that ever apply to me? Meaning well means nothing. After all, the saying does go "the road to hell is paved with good intentions."

But _Riley_ isn't going there—I already determined that months ago. He shouldn't worry about that. On the other hand, I have quite a few bricks already laid down…like (oh god) his mom—

"We're here."

We both climb from the car and onto the sidewalk lining the well-manicured lawn beside it. And still Riley stares at me, confused, and I can't meet his gaze.

Stop living in a dream world, Riley: I can't walk on water and nor will I ever be able to.

"You're too hard on yourself, you know that?" he says, and all I can do is determinedly shake my head. "Stop it, Ben. What I said before I ran away, well…it's over and done with, water under the bridge, OK?" And then he adds quietly, his gaze falling to our shoes. "And…I could never doubt you again after seeing you in Guiana. Watching you across that clearing, seeing you like that…I thought I was going to die."

Wind rustles the new green leaves of the maple trees along the road as I fight to remain calm and dry-eyed. I can't stand keeping this from him any longer—

"Riley, I should have told you ages ago. Your mother—"

"Sadusky told me in January," he says simply, without even a hint of resentment. "Ben…I understand."

"Understand what?"

He grins, and so do his sky-tinted eyes. "You."

Seeing as I rooted myself to the spot, he has to grab hold of my elbow and pull me along the cobblestone path up to the door of the house we parked in front of. Almost immediately this more positive mood melts away and is replaced by many a self-calming sigh and jittery stance.

After five seconds of bouncing from foot to foot, he resolutely pokes the glowing doorbell with his index finger and takes one last fortifying breath.

Next to his determination, my oblivious confusion must appear rather comical. Thankfully, the middle-aged man who comes to the door stifles his chuckle. His mousy brown hair thinning atop a face half-obscured by large coke-bottle spectacles, the quetsion of why Riley would need to visit this timid-seeming man pops into my head.

"Uh…hello, sirs," he says, perplexed, as he pushes the glasses back up his nose. "What can I do for you?"

Riley holds one finger up, telling the man to wait, while his other hand dives back in the coat pocket with the old, bent photograph. He hands that, plus the white piece of paper I saw briefly back home, to the man, saying, "I, uh…hope you are Timothy Anderson."

The man nods, Riley's shoulders less tense from relief, as he squints through the thick lenses at the photo. Suddenly his eyes expand into wide circles, his hands switching to the other sheet, an old piece of notebook paper. Through his squints, I see his eyes run across the words on the paper like a speedy typewriter, popping up at the conclusion with a metaphorical ping.

"Ah, yes, yes…" he says, quite flustered. "Hold on a moment…" Leaving the door ajar, he dashes back into the foyer as calls of "Martha! Martha!" echo down the hallway.

"Could you tell me what this is about?" I murmur to Riley.

"Nope. Not yet."

Timothy soon returns with his wife, Martha, a shorter, heavier woman with curly locks of that same mousy brown hue. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"Yes, yes, come on in, dears," she says with a nervous grin.

They lead us to their living room and motion to the sofa, where we sit facing a matching one across from a coffee table. Not three seconds pass before they beckon Riley off to the adjoining room, leaving me to stare at the line of decorated porcelain cow figurines along the mantelpiece. This does nothing to help my spiking curiosity.

Through the closed door, I catch snippets of their conversation.

"…it's really a _very_ long story," Riley's voice says tiredly.

There's silence as Timothy and Martha speak, their softer tones not penetrating the walls. Occasionally, indecipherable murmurs make it to my ears, maybe a sigh or two, but nothing that could give me any sort of clue as to what we're doing here. Was there something we forgot to resolve? I try to wrack my brains, but then Riley speaks again—

"…doesn't the letter and picture prove enough?"

Again the silence, the emptiness of sound, resolution, information. It drives me nuts, and this one's much longer, concluded with a very loud, relieved sigh from Riley.

"…he's my friend," his voice says quickly. "My closest friend." There's a pause. "No, he has a girlfriend," he sighs.

Ah, I was wondering when they would finally ask, "Oh yeah, who's that other guy?"

As the sound of footsteps grows louder, I finally hear Timothy and Martha's voices. "Yes," she says as they come through the door, patting her husband's hand. "We really just want him to have a nice, happy, normal life."

Yeah, now I'm really confused. What are you up to Riley?

"Well," Riley sighs, a grimace playing on his lips. "I can almost guarantee most of that, but…not so much the part about normal. Right, Ben?" he adds with a hopeful grin.

"Right…?"

While Martha runs off, muttering to herself ("Just hold on one teensy minute"), Riley furtively shoots me a look that's screaming patience, meandering over to join me on the sofa. Timothy sits across from us.

"So!" he says. "You're really Ben Gates?"

"Yes," I say cautiously, not knowing just how to proceed since I kind of don't know what's going on (hint, hint, Riley).

"I can see what you mean, Riley," he continues. "about the 'normal' part. And…" At this, his face clouds over with sorrow under the lenses. "It's just so…terrible, _so_ terrible about Caroline; it really is. She was such a wonderful girl." A frown stretches over his mouth as Riley nods to himself.

They knew Caroline? Why can't I make the connection?

"Timothy!"

We all turn and find Martha half-concealed behind the door frame and motioning hastily for her husband. He follows her lead, and rather clumsily, doing some sort of shuffle-jog out of the room; with smiling faces they back away and reveal a small boy clutching a framed picture.

No words are spoken, although many eyes seem to be urging someone to do so. Slowly, the boy's gaze curiously examines the photo, then us, and back again. He's a cute kid—no more than four years old, with dark brown hair, cheerful squinty eyes, and a complexion that, even coming from the dead of winter, looks like a light tan.

After his careful scrutinizing, the slivers of eyes explode into circles of shocked, electric blue as he again reverts to a cycle of glancing between us and the picture, plus Timothy and Martha. I look to Riley beside me; it's like I don't exist, the way he's staring at the boy. And it's captivating.

"Nana?" he says in his young, squeaky voice. "Is dis f'real?"

His big blue dinner plates wait expectantly for Martha to respond, but all she does is smile. That seems to confuse him.

Hesitantly the boy steps further into the living room, sneakered feet shuffling along the hardwood floors and frame in hand, up to Riley. Briefly his gaze falls to the photo before returning to us.

"My name's Wes," he says confidently in his high-pitched speech, and something about it makes me fall in love with the kid, he's so endearing.

Riley can barely make a sound—instead he smiles a twitchy sort of grin.

"I dink you're my daddy."

With both of his tiny golden hands, he switches the frame around so we can see it as well: a less-warped version of Caroline and Riley among the blooming cherry blossoms meets our gaze, protected within the polished wood borders.

Fingers shaking something terrible, Riley fumbles into his inside jacket pocket but comes up empty, then going into his closer breast pocket—finally retrieved is his battered copy. He can hardly unfold it without ripping it along its fragile creases.

But once he does, time—for something like the third time since August—stops, and for once it's because of something good.

Wes, in all his youthful energy, springs buoyantly into Riley's lap and sprawls clumsily on the sofa, flinging his arms around Riley in a desperate hug that's been pent-up all of his four or so years. And I've never seen such an expression on Riley's face.

"Dey tol' me you could come back!" Wes says into Riley's shoulder. "An' Nana an' Papa tell me stories 'bout yer 'ventures wiv dose treasures an' such—" And the babbling continues, and Riley nods, words failing him.

We've come so far.

Without realizing it, I travel back to the days of old, when we were new and inexperienced in the ways of our schemes, ignorant of the role we played in something larger. When Sadusky actually did want to arrest us, when Abigail actually did want to curse me to oblivion, when Riley was just…_Riley_—how long has it actually been? And is this time or distance we're referring to?

Days, months, years—they don't seem right. Time is too relentless, always going at the same speed, for better or for worse, driving us crazy. But all the most defining moments came in spurts, like bursts of speed that break the needle on the speedometer, catapulting us to the beyond. We've come miles and miles, so when we look back from where we've come after these blasts, the past seems foreign. Who needs time? We forget to count the days.

"Ben?"

Riley's sudden touch jarring me from my reverie makes me jump, heart rate aflutter. Wes' arms are tightly latched around his neck, and if I'm not mistaken both sets of blue eyes are glistening, Riley's leaking quite a bit. He doesn't say much out loud, but I sense something in his familiar gaze that I never saw before: a reason, a subtle explanation…

I have never been able to comprehend him, why he acts certain ways, says certain things—but above all, why he keeps being the way he is even despite all my glaring malfunctions. But now I see it, and it's literally staring me in the face.

_It's really quite simple…I believe in you._

"Hey, Ben?" he tries again.

"Yeah?"

Riley smiles in understanding of my mind wanderings. "Will you be his godfather?"

The thought hardly has enough time to register before I accept enthusiastically, his grin becoming more prominent.

"OK, Wes," he says to the also-grinning boy. "This is your Uncle Ben."

Wes' smaller eyes greet me with a bit of puzzlement. "Like da guy on da rice box?"

Briefly Riley and I exchange amused glances. "Yeah," he says slowly. "Kind of."

"But…but," he squeaks. "You don't really look like him." Eyebrow arched, he turns his round face to his father. "What up wid dat?"

For one long, single second there is silence, and then we burst into incoherent laughter like I've never heard in so long. As the stitches fade to stifled giggles, we wipe different tears from our eyes that are now wrenched open; I put an arm around Riley's shoulder and give him a jarring one-armed hug. Eyes meeting, I imply strongly, _it's going to be OK, it's going to be OK, Riley. _He understands, as he always does—it _is_ going to be OK; we've got our dose of hope.

X

"_Prosperity provideth, but adversity proveth friends." (Queen Elizabeth I) _

XXX

**So…it's finally the end, huh? Wow. (sits in silence for a moment)**

**To all my readers, reviewers, and people who put this on their alerts or favorites: THANK YOU! This was my first successful multi-chapter story, as well as my first fic to pass 100 (and 200!) reviews. It was an indescribable feeling for a somewhat obscure author like myself. Hugs for you all! And free Riley clones. That's where I've been during my longer update periods. (Maybe.)**

**So…please review, even if you've never reviewed before. Tell me what you liked/hated/thought I could improve on, from plot and character (the latter somewhat of an obsession for me) to writing style. Please. And—again—thank you. **

**BandGeek58407**

**PS – Don't forget about the poll! **


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